


In our minds, after the war

by orphan_account



Series: War and Peace [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Cliffhangers, Domestic, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insanity, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Matelotage, Mild Smut, My First Smut, Past Rape/Non-con, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective!Flint, flint-typical angst, probably smut at some point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:05:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 49,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7197026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'The Price of Victory' - after reclaiming Nassau, Flint deals with the aftermath of Silver's imprisonment</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Post-victory, it is necessary to establish their new nation and cope with the fallout of their war. There will be a lot of angst...and hopefully some plot hidden somewhere in it!

It had been a long day, and the sun had barely stopped ascending. Flint leaned against the battered wooden window frame, eyes lazily surveying the street below as his attention drifted in and out of the ongoing discussion between his comrades.

His comrades being the temporary governing council of Nassau comprised of Teach, Jack -naturally accompanied by Anne -, Madi, Max, and of course Flint himself. Silver should have been among them. Billy was with the company too, the voice of the Walrus men in the absence of their quartermaster. Because no one was about to let the captain speak for them.

They had found a large room in the governor’s residence already furnished with several chairs and one large table. It had been privy to a rather brutal fight between Teach and several of Rogers’ men during the battle and wore the scars of this skirmish proudly. Much of the furniture was damaged, or at the very least spattered with blood, and only five of the dozen chairs were deemed fit for use. These were occupied by Teach, Madi, Max, Jack and Billy, who had arranged them around the paper-strewn table that served as the hub for their meeting.

The topic of discussion - assigning occupations to every citizen of Nassau.

Flint had been the one to propose that this be top of the council’s agenda. Men needed purpose. Without it they would fall quickly to animalistic ways, and Nassau would fall to ruin. The first step towards a stable community was to distribute jobs to its population, give them a means of earning money and something to occupy their time.

Although the importance of this meeting was lost on no-one, least of all Flint, he just couldn’t find it in him to engage fully with their conversation. Silver should have been there. Flint would have enjoyed watching him fight passionately on behalf of his men, proffering evocative words to guarantee that his men were assigned occupations in which they would be happy and never in want of more coin.

It could not be denied that Billy was doing a good job of this in Silver’s absence. He knew the men as well as anyone and cared for them like family. He could facilely list the skills, desires and interests of every one of his brothers, and knew precisely where in society they would likely be most content.

And so Flint largely left him to it, only chiming in to propose additional roles that needed filling or to argue with Teach over something that may or may not have merited argument.

The discussion continued for several more hours. They were brought food somewhere around midday, and shortly thereafter a couple of jugs of ale to aid in their deliberations. Flint made a mental note to address the alcohol consumption levels in Nassau at some point. Perhaps after addressing his own habitual use of the substance in place of water.

By the time they finally decided to finish for the day, the sun was starting to slip below the horizon. They had drafted a nearly complete list of required occupations and potential names to fill them, marking a reasonably successful day of work that left everyone ready for some dinner and a good helping of rum.

“It seems to me that should we put the running of the forge jointly in the hands of…” Jack continued talking to Flint even as they left the meeting room and walked the short distance to the tavern.

Given the universally opinionated nature of their governing council, Flint could only imagine that the discussions would be continued over dinner and well into the evening. He didn’t mind really. His desire for a stable Nassau had been long-standing and unfaltering. Ensuring that every person who played a part in reclaiming it had a role in its running was essential to achieving this end.

But he wished Silver was with him now - he didn’t know the names of half of their men, let alone their particular skills outside of sailing a ship.

Jack was still speaking as they ascended the few steps to the tavern entrance, “…in light of which, we should perhaps…”

They entered and Flint froze. His breath caught in his throat and whatever words he ought to have been registering from the man beside him was lost to the resonant pounding of his heart.

There, seated on a table in the centre of the tavern was Silver, smiling weakly as the gaggle of men around him spoke excitedly. He was, as ever, expertly concealing his exhaustion and pain from the men, but Flint had always been able to see through that particular guise.

He wore a thin cotton shirt, through which the bandages covering his torso could be seen, stark white against tanned skin. One leg of his loose grey trousers was rolled up, revealing the swathed end of his stump, while the other hung down to almost cover fully his bare foot. His hair was tied neatly back into a low ponytail, exposing the red marks encircling his neck accompanied in places by deep purple bruising.

Flint was painfully accustomed to seeing that combination of injuries by now, after two days of holding vigil every night at Silver’s bedside and helping Howell clean and redress the various wounds.

What had grown harrowingly unfamiliar over that time was the sight of his bright blue eyes. A stunning azure, just as beautiful as they had ever been. Deeply laden with pain, just as as they had been ever since the events of Charlestown.

Whatever Jack had been saying about whatever the fuck they had been talking about became utterly meaningless in that moment. Flint left him hanging mid-sentence, striding without further hesitation directly to Silver’s position. He hardly registered Jack muttering after him, and he certainly didn’t care.

The men organised around Silver almost jumped out of the way as Flint marched through them. He didn’t stop until his lips were pressed against Silver’s and his hands were tightly clasping his face. Silver melted immediately into the kiss, bringing desperate hands to grasp at whatever part of Flint’s clothing they first encountered. Flint’s tongue demanded entry into Silver’s mouth. He eagerly granted it.

One of Flint’s hands twirled into the black curls, pulling some free from the loosely tied ribbon, while the other moved behind Silver’s neck, forcing him deeper into the kiss, refusing to let go. Days of need bled profusely into the kiss.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless. Silver smiled his toothy, genuine smile that always had Flint grow weak at the knees. He allowed his forehead to fall to that of his partner, closing his eyes and breathing hard.  
 “I feared I had lost you.” He whispered, hands stroking the soft curls of their own accord. The smile remained on his lover’s lips.

“I’m still here, James.” The whispered reply was followed by another kiss, softer and more chaste. Silver then gently placed his hands on Flint’s cheeks and forced their eyes to lock. “I will never leave you alone.”

Flint’s joy was, in that instant, rendered bitter with guilt. He was happy, elated, to have Silver alive and by his side. He couldn’t be happier. He had everything he desired. Everything he could possible desire or need. But how could that happiness be justified when looking into Silver’s eyes revealed but a shadow of a man? Fragments of a broken thing.

Flint had watched, over these past years, as John Silver was beaten down and shattered. He was complicit in every fracture, every wound, had been caused by or because of him. The man lay in tatters now, pieces of him scattered throughout their history together.

The first piece, Flint thought, must have been lost sometime before Charlestown. When? He could not say. So caught up had he been in his petty animosity with Vane and his desire to spirit Miranda to a place of happiness, that he had not even noticed when Silver had started to fragment.

After the events of that fateful day, pieces started to fall in an unabating torrent. At the time, stricken by his own grief and rage, Flint had even relished the sight of his new quartermaster being torn asunder. Perhaps it had been revenge for his blatant dishonesty about the Urca gold, or maybe it had simply been born from a desire to have someone to suffer alongside him.

Whatever the reason, by the time they had reached reconciliation and the partnership that soon followed, it was already too late to stop Silver’s decay.

And now, yet another piece had been lost. All because Flint had not fought against Teach’s plan. All because Flint had allowed Silver to offer himself as a sacrifice in the name of this war. A war spurred by Flint’s refusal to relent to English rule and apologise to the crown for a past Silver had played no part in.

Flint could see everything in Silver’s eyes. He could see what little was left of that jovial, cheeky, carefree thief who had captivated him with ire and lust in equal measure. Ire and lust that had transformed somehow into insatiable love. Flint could see in Silver’s eyes every tendril of darkness that had crept in to fill the voids left by the loss of each piece of the man.

Was this to be the price of victory then? Pieces of Silver lost forever, littering their shared history. Flint knew there was nothing he could do to repair this broken man before him.

“James? Where are you?” The words came at a whisper, Silver’s eyes searching his with a desperate hope.

Flint finally smiled and kissed his love’s forehead softly,

“Right here with you. Where I will always be.”

He might be able to do nothing to repair this broken man, but he would sure as hell do everything to protect what was left of him.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint was grateful to the clouds that were staying off the light of the rising sun for they provided a darkness in which to hide the tears he could not belay from streaming down his face.

It took one of the Walrus men indiscreetly encouraging his captain to ‘just fuck him already’ for Flint to remember that they were not alone. He had, for a moment, as was true of so many moments with Silver, forgotten that the rest of the world existed. It appeared he was predisposed to get lost in the depths of those blue eyes.

But now he was immediately mindful of the dozen-odd men surrounding them, of Jack left behind mid-sentence at the entrance, of Madi beside him and her intense gaze upon his partner. The smell of fresh bread and stew on the air, the sounds of busily chatting people elsewhere in the tavern and out in the street.

As these physical sensations returned to Flint, so too did logical thought and with it a sudden awareness of Silver’s situation. Specifically, that he should not be here. Not in this state.

Observing the man now, without the hazy vizor fabricated by his love- and guilt-ridden mind, Silver’s strain became painfully evident. His breathing was laboured and body trembling slightly, brows furrowed just minutely in pain. Sufficiently well-veiled tells that no one else would see it. But Flint saw it.

He deliberated a course of action to return Silver to his bed without inducing feelings of weakness or challenged pride. The men around them were starting to disperse, heading to various tables to acquire for themselves whatever food they could smell drifting in from the kitchen. Their dissipating numbers might grant him a sufficiently small audience for him to suggest Silver retire for the night.

“Mr. Silver,” Jack gave a curt nod as he walked past among the trickle of men, Anne as ever in tow, “Congratulations on not being dead and all that…would love to commend you further, but I am, quite frankly, famished after a day of lengthy discussions with pontifical companions. I’m sure you can relate.”

Silver only flicked his eyes to Jack in response. His attention was on Madi, who had finally moved from the door to stand beside him. She allowed her eyes to scan his form cautiously.

Last she had seen Silver, he had been dangling from a coarse rope strung about his neck. Flint stepped back respectively, breaking contact with his husband. Silver’s hands lingered in the air for the briefest of moments as if calling Flint back to him, desperate to regain the lost tangency.

“How are you?” She asked quietly into the thick silence hanging between them. Her eyes would not quite meet his.

The air she held when in Silver’s presence seemed to oscillate stochastically between one of caution and one of fearless superiority. Right now it lay well within the realms of the former, as if she was unsure where they stood after his sacrifice for their cause.

“I’m fine.” Caution transformed to superiority at his blatant lie. He smiled then, sad and pained but reassuring.

“I will be fine.”

She seemed to appreciate the honest amendment and gently covered his hand with her own. A gesture that seemed to trigger something, some thought or memory or emotion, in Silver that was lost on Flint. Not hidden. Simply not comprehended.

Madi cast a quick glance to Flint before removing herself from the pair, allowing Flint to call end to his respectful silence as she headed off to join her people for dinner.

“Billy.” He called out, pulling the man from an amicable conversation with two of his brothers, “We had best get Mr. Silver back to bed before Howell finds him absent. I fear our good doctor’s heart would give out.”

Billy was there in an instant, formidably loyal even now that they were no longer really a crew.

If Silver was reluctant for the assistance, he didn’t vocalise it. Proud beyond reason though he may be, Flint knew he was perfectly capable of recognising when he had no choice but to accept the help of others. And in a weakened state with one leg and no boot or crutches, now was most definitely one of those times.

With one arm around Flint’s shoulder and Billy holding the other by the elbow, they helped him out of the tavern. By the time they had reached the street, Silver’s eyes were half-lidded and his breathing worryingly strained.

His condition worsened as they moved on, and he had all but passed out when they arrived at the inn. Flint imagined his grasp on consciousness at that point to be virtually non-existent, given he put up no measure of resistance when Billy carried him the rest of the way to the room Flint had adopted with Max’s unspoken permission.

The room showed evidence of Silver’s escape. Bed sheets strewn in a state of disarray and pitcher of water displaced from the bedside table onto the floor. Much of the unfurnished space in the small chamber had become occupied by a brass tub filled with long-since cooled water that gleamed with the red tinge of blood.

Billy carefully lowered Silver onto the bed, making every attempt to avoid any contact with his back, and found a discarded pillow to place below his left leg.

“I’ll have some food brought.” Billy muttered as he stood back, allowing Flint to gather up the sheets and drape them over the semi-conscious form. He didn’t expect more than the nod he received by way of thanks for the offer. Having spent years with this man as his captain, he knew well that when focused on a task, words tended to give way to silent gestures.

Considering his job done, Billy moved to leave, turning briefly at the door to address Silver, “You’re a fucking idiot, you do realise that, right?”

“And yet nigh-on impossible not to like.” Came the fatigued retort. The corner of Billy’s mouth twitched in amusement as he disappeared into the hallway.

With all company gone, Flint finally sighed and sat down on the bed beside Silver. He stroked the curls softly, eyes filled with concern,

“You haven’t eaten in well over a week. Drunk perhaps two tankards of water in the same time. Your injuries have yet to even begin contemplating healing…what in God’s name possessed you to get up and wander about?”

Silver shrugged as best he could,“The men seemed to think it was a good idea.”

At that, Flint had to roll his eyes. Of course Silver couldn’t have gotten out of bed, bathed and redressed, let alone found his way to the tavern, alone. And should any of his crew - ex-crew - found him conscious when they visited, they would obviously have been keen to spirit him away from the confines of a bed at his request.

“Most likely because you told them it was a good idea.”

Silver didn’t deny it. He simply closed his eyes, exhausted. His breath started to even out and Flint had thought him asleep when he spoke again. Barely a whisper now.

“I wanted to see you…didn’t know how long I could stay awake, or how long you would be gone…and I wanted…had to see you…before…needed to know you are alright.” Each word seemed fainter than the last as Silver’s grip on consciousness weakened.

“Billy’s right. You are an idiot.” Flint’s fond jibe fell on deaf ears.

Pressing a kiss to Silver’s temple, he stood to retrieve the book he had been reading during his vigil the previous evening.

He continued to read until late into the night, pausing only to eat the dinner brought up by Idelle and to try to get Silver to drink some water. So quickly did sleep eventually fall upon him that he did not even realise his eyes had closed before drifting off, book open and forgotten on his lap.

——————

Flint awoke with the first blue-grey light of dawn to the sight of an empty bed. Jumping to his feet, the book fell with a thud to the ground, a thud following immediately by a frightened cry from beside the dressing table. Cautiously, Flint stalked to the source of the noise and crouched before the thin and shaking figure he found there. Silver was trembling, curled in on himself in the shadows being cast by the dresser and wall behind it.

“John?” In the darkness his eyes seemed frighteningly hollow. They would not meet his.

“John,” Flint tried again, reaching out carefully to ghost his hand over Silver’s arm. The trembling form recoiled just slightly from the touch, eyes wild and frantic, but body to weak to act on the panic in his mind.

He knew Silver had been tortured in Rogers’ prison. It was evident from the gnarled, bloody mess that his stump had become and the various bruises that were unattributable to the flogging or the gallows. It was expected from the outset of their plan. Rogers had been in desperate need of the Spanish gold and had every reason to presume Silver knew its location.

Flint had forced himself to accept it. He had reminded himself every waking hour between Silver’s capture and his flogging that his husband would be suffering at the hands of the King’s bastard Navy, but that it was necessary. It was necessary, and Silver would heal. He would heal because Flint would be there for him.

But it was difficult now to believe in that mantra. Looking at the terror gleaming in Silver’s eyes, in this moment, healing seemed beyond comprehension.

With a deep breath such as one taken prior to plunging headlong into a freezing ocean, Flint reached out and pulled Silver’s broken form to his chest. He kept a firm but gentle hold as the man tried to struggle, thrash, and fight against the monster from his nightmare. He whispered words of comfort into his lover’s ear and stroked his curls, damp from sweat, until the whimpers subsided and gave way to choking sobs.

Flint was grateful to the clouds that were staying off the light of the rising sun for they provided a darkness in which to hide the tears he could not belay from streaming down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a plot emerging soon...had horrific writer's, drawer's, scientist's and every other form of block lately... >_


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint could count on less than one hand the number of times he had felt like things were finally coming together. When it seemed that everything would somehow assemble neatly into a coherent, functional and lasting entity. Right now, as he walked along the streets of Nassau basking in the gentle warmth of the early evening, he could confidently add another to that list.

Flint wished he had been woken by the bright midmorning sun, and not by a hoarse, terrified cry from the man he loved.

At some point in the early hours of morning he must have fallen asleep. He was leant back against the dresser with Silver curled up in his embrace, spots of fresh blood creeping through the thin shirt, a persuasive reminder of the need to tend to his wounds. 

It took a couple of seconds for Flint to realise where he was, why he was here. But then he immediately cupped Silver’s face with one hand, allowing the other to remain in place on his waist. With a careful firmness he forced Silver to meet his eyes,

“John. It’s alright. Look at me.” He whispered, watching nervously as the blue eyes focused on his green ones and his breathing slowed. Terror became realisation, and realisation morphed to shame. Shame coupled with an unadulterated self-hatred that had Flint’s heart sink and blood boil, filling him with despair and anger in equal measure.

That expression was painfully familiar. It was one that Silver had worn almost daily since the events of Charlestown. At least, he had done so until shortly before their matelotage and the feelings of self-worth it had gifted to them both. With it, Silver’s smile had started to return, albeit without the brightness it once held. But now that twisted expression was there again, marring the features of the beautiful man in his arms. 

Flint closed his eyes against the sight, struggling to school himself against the anger growing inside him, threatening to overwhelm him. Anger at Silver for his self-deprecating thoughts that were almost loud enough to hear, at Teach for initiating the entire plan that culminated in this moment, at himself for letting it all come to pass. He couldn’t bear to see that expression again.

Looking around the room instead, Flint tried to calm his hastening breath by taking in the surroundings. He noted a bundle of fresh bandages lying on the bed and beside them a basket of bread and fruits. There was a pitcher of fresh water placed on the floor by the bed, complete with two cups. Flint didn’t know or particularly care who had delivered the items - Silver was adored by enough people on this island that the list of candidates was too extensive to construct.

“John,” he whispered, stroking the curls beneath his hand in an attempt to calm his own emotions as much as to carefully draw Silver from his dark despair.

Silver look back into his eyes but said nothing. He just pushed himself away from Flint, shifting to lean his right side against the dresser while his partner stood to retrieve the food and water.

“You need to eat.” Flint handed Silver a bread roll, which he took with a trembling hand and a decisive lack of eye contact. He took a small bite of the bread, chewed slowly and swallowed at length. Another bite, careful and nervous. He chewed and swallowed. A third bite. He chewed and started retching.

Flint rushed to grab a basin from beside the bed, sending the pitcher and its water toppling in his wake. He managed to get the basin to Silver just in time for him to throw up into it - the little food he had just eaten mixed with bile and blood.

“Fuck!” Silver spat out, tears of frustration shining in the corners of his eyes as he tried desperately to control his breathing. Flint knelt beside him, one hand stroking black strands from his face, the other helping to hold the basin steady.

When the pained sound of choking retches had at last subsided, Flint carefully placed the bowl ton the floor, wordlessly filled a cup with a little of the water remaining in the pitcher, and handed it to Silver. The first attempt he made to swallow some of the liquid was met with more bile and blood being coughed up into the basin. Breathing heavily he tried again, managing eventually to drink a few full sips. Flint remained silent, watching with helpless sorrow his husband try to handle the very simple task of before him.

Looking briefly up as he refilled the cup, Flint became aware of another in their presence - a tall figure standing in the doorway with worry etched deeply into his features, head tilted slightly in silent question. Whatever business Billy must have come to discuss was forgotten in the debilitated silence that hung in the room, disturbed only by morning birdsong and haggard breaths from a broken man.

Flint stood, clenching his jaw with resolve when he was forced to extricate himself from the desperate hand that reached out to grasp at his sleeve. He tried not to look down into the blue eyes that pleaded up at him to stay. Hands fisted at his sides, he moved to the door to address his former bosun,

“Keep an eye on him?” It was barely a whisper, but Silver must have heard. Must have realised they were no longer alone for, when Flint hazarded to glance back into the room, he saw not the man but his mask. The one he had fashioned long ago to hide his self-declared weakness from the crew. The one he removed for Flint. Only for Flint.

Swallowing thickly, he turned and left. His nails were close to piercing the skin of his palms by the time he found Max in the courtyard, nursing a glass of rum and staring distantly at the various people she had redecorating the inn after its brief stint as a hospital. She looked up absently at him in question.

“May I use your kitchen?” He asked without looking at her.

“Of course.” With nodded thanks he headed in the direction of her gaze. The stifling heat of the small kitchen mirrored the burning rage in his veins.

Immediately, he set to work, grateful of the wide berth he was given by the two cooks already present. Cooking had always had an intensely calming effect on Flint and, by the time he was pouring a board of chopped vegetables into bubbling stock, his hands had stopped shaking and his pulse was nearing something tolerably normal.

He returned to the bedroom about an hour later carrying a tray with three steaming bowls of broth. Silver was still seated on the floor by the dresser, listening to Billy who was leant against the wall not far away. The basin had been cleared away to a far corner, hidden behind the bed.

“I assigned Birds to work up at the fort - doubt he has the skill for construction work in general, but it gives him something immediate. Take his mind off Gerrard.” Billy was evidently relaying his assignments of occupations for their men to Silver.

To Flint’s knowledge, Birds was one of their riggers and Gerrard his brother, although he could not say whether it was by blood or close friendship that he earned that title. Gerrard had been killed in the battle. Apparently Birds was distraught.

“Obviously Howell intends to open a surgery. Joint venture with a couple of Madi’s…” Billy trailed off on seeing Flint, who took the silence as his cue to enter.

He proffered bowls from the tray to his companions before joining them on the floor with his own, trying not to watch anxiously as Silver began to sip the thin liquid from his spoon. Only after the man had managed five mouthfuls of the meal could he breath again and start to eat himself.

The three sat in companionable silence. Billy seemed to have discarded his spoon in favour of mopping the broth up with bread from the basket, one roll of which Flint took himself. Silver ate slowly, hand visibly shaking with every spoonful, but Flint felt relieved when he eventually managed to finish the bowl.

His relief became inordinate when Silver’s voice was the one to break the silence.

“I feel we ought be concerned that the man charged with organising this island’s militia is more skilled in the kitchen than anyone actually working in a kitchen.” It was strained, barely there, but it dissipated the silence with ease. Billy nodded his agreement through a mouthful of bread. The broth was, undeniably, almost as good as his spiced and glazed pig.

Flint shook his head, “That’s because, for some unfathomable reason, we see fit to put people like you to work in the kitchen.”

“I happen to be a very good cook now.” Silver argued, eyes closing unwillingly in exhaustion.

“You can peel a potato. That doesn’t equate to being a good cook.” Billy interjected, earning an honest smile and sidelong glance from Silver.

“Randell seemed to think it did.”

Billy laughed, shaking his head. Flint had to laugh too.

He laughed in spite of himself. Laughed even though he knew that this easy exchange, Silver’s witty retorts and cheeky smiles, were the product of his fabricated guise. A pretence that he was something more than a shadow of himself. It was better than nothing, he told himself. Perhaps in time the mask would be discarded, become unnecessary.

Howell’s appearance in the doorway drew their amicable conversation to an abrupt close.

“Mr. Silver,” he began, walking into the room bearing the expression of a mother scolding her disobedient child, “Why is it that I hear from the men of you took it upon yourself to join them in the tavern last night?”

Silver glared at the doctor with no real malice,

“I wanted to stretch my leg.” He bit out, reaching up with both hands to clasp the edge of the dresser. Flint eyed Silver warily as he pulled struggled to pull himself to standing and shifted to lean heavily on the dresser as his leg protested against taking his weight.

“The council will be meeting shortly,” Flint offered as he, too, stood. He reached out and allowed one hand to caress Silver’s cheek, leant down to capture the parted lips with his own. He moved away just enough to whisper into the space between them.

“Please listen to Dr. Howell so you can join me at these meetings before I go completely mad from listening to Rackham’s verbal deluge.” He joked, knowing that Silver had expressed amusement at Flint’s disapproval of the man’s ability to replace a single syllable with five words. Silver didn’t meet his eyes.

“I had best go check on the men up at the fort…make sure they aren’t griping about duties already.” Billy headed to the door, clapping Silver gently on the shoulder as he passed.

With a soft kiss and lingering caress of his lover’s arm, Flint followed the intensely muscled man out, leaving Howell alone with his most stubborn patient.

If Billy had come to the inn that morning to discuss business with Flint, he had forgotten it by the time they left together.

“Looks like your meeting will be a bit short.” He nodded to a the retreating figure of Anne, closely trailed by Max, heading together into an empty room.

So far as Flint knew, the two women had shared few, if any, words since the victory over Rogers. Jack had spoken to Max indirectly during meetings, but Anne was his silent shadow. He had seen her watching the madame forlornly when she perceived the other woman to not be looking. He had observed Max return the secret glances. The desperation in their eyes was evident. The need to reconcile this thing between them.

Flint hoped they could make peace. They both deserved more than the fleeting spells of happiness he had observed them obtain so far. Everyone on Nassau deserved that. With an unspoken hope hanging in the air between them, Flint and Billy wordlessly parted ways.

———

Flint could count on less than one hand the number of times he had felt like things were finally coming together. When it seemed that everything would somehow assemble neatly into a coherent, functional and lasting entity. Right now, as he walked along the streets of Nassau basking in the gentle warmth of the early evening, he could confidently add another to that list.

The meeting had been successful. Not definitive by any means, but they had made significant progress towards drafting a reasonable set of laws by which to govern Nassau, and had concrete plans in place for her early development.

They needed more housing for the greatly increased resident population and had identified two suitable sites on which to start construction within the next few weeks. They would need to establish a militia charged with ensuring the law was obeyed, and Flint was confident that he could rise to that particular challenge. It was a task for which he was ideally qualified, with his unrivalled skills in battle and tactical prowess, and a partner with an uncanny ability to manipulate the minds of men.

All in all, the day had been a productive and encouraging. Nassau could have a magnificent future under their leadership, he was confident of it.

Thus, with spirits justifiably high, Flint headed back to the inn, making three stops on the way.

First he headed briefly to the tavern, where he knew he could have quick access to some fresh water and soap with which to clean himself up after the long, hot day. It felt like treason to, in a time of hard-earned of peace, not make an effort with personal hygiene and one’s appearance.

Next he made a visit to a woman Madi had informed him to be an excellent tailor. He handed her a neatly written piece of paper listing some items he needed and sizing details, accompanied by a generously-filled purse of cash.

Finally he took a diversion on entering the inn to pass through the kitchen, where he recovered the pot of broth left over from the morning and hung it over a small fire to warm through. He had instructed those working there that the pot was to remain untouched and, thanks most likely to the authority his name still held, his instructions had been followed.

At last, feeling the resounding sense of satisfaction that accompanied a gratifying day and the completion of outstanding tasks, he made his contented way back to his husband.

Silver was alone in their room when Flint returned. He was seated on the bed, shirtless and with a woollen blanket draped over his shoulders in defence of the cool sea breeze floating in through the window. Open on the bed beside him was Flint’s discarded book from the night before, which he appeared to be reading with limited vigour. He must have bathed recently, curls still hanging heavy and damp, fresh bandages adorning his body. The lesion on his neck was blazing red against the unhealthy pallor that seemed to be engaged in a prolonged battle with the natural tan of his skin.

“You could have opted for a less depressing title for your post-victory reading.” Silver didn’t look up from the pages of the book as he spoke, apparently having sensed Flint’s presence at the door.

Flint smiled, shucked off his coat and moved to kneel behind him on the bed, placing his hands carefully on the exposed curves of Silver’s hips.

“My choice of literature was rather limited.”

“Even the fucking bible isn’t this bleak.” Silver returned, leaning his head back into Flint’s chest, eyes closed as he relished the warmth emanating from his husband. Flint bent his head to plant a kiss on the top of Silver’s head, inhaling the scent of honeysuckle and lemons. He would have to acquire a vial of that bath oil before they left Max’s hospitality.

The warmth growing in his chest began to guide Flint’s movements. His hands started to find their way up Silver’s sides, ghosting over the bandages and up under the blanket, pushing it off to expose gently curving shoulders. The rough of his palms caressed over the smooth skin of his neck, stroking up and into his soft, pitch curls.

Calloused fingers snaked through the silky strands, pulling them slowly behind his back to unveil his throat. Soft kisses were patterned over the wound there, eliciting a shiver from Silver as the coarse hairs of Flint’s beard scraped over damaged skin, sending sparks of pleasurable pain flying through his body.

Flint continued to kiss down his neck to his shoulder, nipping at the sensitive skin above his collar bone and relishing the way Silver’s breath quickened in response. Each contact was laced with more hunger and more need, than the last. Becoming harder, faster, messy. The blue eyes had closed with pleasure, and rose lips parted in panting exhalations. Silver bent his head to expose more skin for Flint to do with as he pleased. And he would do everything, anything, to see the man he loved move in ecstasy under his touch.

Flint’s tongue trailed, long and damp, up the side of Silver’s neck. He arched in response. He cried out in pain. The movement had torn open the barely closed wounds on his back. Flint froze.

He had gone too far. Let his body lead the way of his mind. And though his mind screamed to stop, his body still screamed back to carry on. To pretend everything was as it should be and continue to ply the man in his hands, to make him keen and moan with pleasure beneath him. His body throbbed with need of it and Flint had to muster every tiny piece of self-control he could find just to force himself to stop.

“Please. I’m fine.” Silver whispered, his voice breathless and his eyes pleading, “I want this.”

“No. Not yet.” Came the soft reply, although Flint was on the edge of giving in and taking the man before him as he had taken him so many times before. Bring him to the edge and plunge down into euphoria with him.

With a shaky breath he pulled away.

“I’ll go get us some dinner.” With that he stood and left the room, leaving Silver breathing heavily on the bed, fists clenched and eyes clouded with frustration.

He returned minutes later with two bowls of the hot broth and a small amount of bread. Silver took a bowl and began to sip at the meal silently. Flint needed to distract himself from the lust still desperate to make itself known, and he had to pull Silver from the dark thoughts he was drifting dangerously close to.

So he talked business.

He started by recounting the preliminary arrangements for defending the island. Rebuild the fort, assemble a fleet of battle-ready ships, and train a militia. There would be two legions within that - his concerned principally with law enforcement and maintaining order day-to-day, and Teach’s who would prioritise defence of the island, including manning the fort and arranging watches at her borders.

“I want to assign Richards as a lieutenant.” He said after finishing his broth and placing the bowl tidily on the floor beside him. “Put him in charge of immediate management of law on the street.”

“Joji is a better choice. Richards is the stronger fighter…Joji is more…disciplined.” Silver’s voice was still slow and shaky, but the distraction appeared to be having the intended effect.

“What about Jacob? He has experience leading men.”

“Yes, but he also has serious problems…recalling instruction. I cannot imagine he would…remember any of the laws he was meant…meant…to be enforcing.”

They continued onto talks of commerce and trade. What crops could they grow other than sugar cane? Whether there were colonies in the New World sympathetic enough to their circumstances to establish trade with? Did they need to hunt for a while to supplement their takes? Would those already trading with Nassau even notice the change in governance?

“Max…she would know the…we should…”

Silver’s eyes were becoming unfocused and his voice weak, barely audible. Flint stood, drawing an end to the conversation with a hand on Silver’s shoulder, easing him gently to lie on his right side.

“Sleep. We can continue this tomorrow.” He murmured to the barely conscious man, gathering a pillow to place below his left leg for support and draping the bed sheet over his thin form.

He went to snuff out the candles, a tightness growing in his chest as the light was extinguished and darkness reigned once more. All hope and positivity and happiness he had felt earlier was an ebbing tide. Anxiety overcame him.

He had spent the day dreading the night. They had to sleep. They both had to sleep. Flint could protect Silver from attackers, from unnecessary pain, even from his own darkness to some extent. But he knew he could do nothing to protect Silver from the monsters that would visit upon him that night.

He tried to stay awake, to watch and wait until memories of torture tore Silver from his sleep. But exhaustion was wearing on him and before he could tell himself to open his eyes, he had drifted off.

Flint registered the sound first. Pained cries coming from the bed beside him. Then he noticed the movement - thrashing that might have been threatening had there been any strength behind it. In a sleep-ridden state, Flint was at first uncertain of the source of the noise and the cause of the movement. He blinked his eyes open slowly to shadows cast by a bright moon in the pitch black of night.

Then it all came to him.

He called for Silver, held him to his chest. Just as he had the previous morning, he endured the cries and struggling the embrace drew from his husband, forced himself to hold strong and let screams subside to sobs and weak, muffled whimpers. And just as he had the previous morning, he allowed himself to cry silently into the darkness of night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok...so I was meant to put a bit more plot in this chapter but it didn't happen...it is coming!!! >_


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'When they finally arrived, they gave no quarter. Silver was thrashing, screaming, almost before Flint could register the first flicker of a grimace on his face. With painfully practiced motions he gathered the man into his arms, and bid those monsters be gone with clement kisses and whispered words. He realised now how it felt to fight an unwinnable war.'

_The battle with Hornigold and his men was done, but Flint’s blood was still on fire.  The sight of Silver standing across the water from him had set it blazing anew with a ferocity that threatened to reduce the world around him to cinders._

 

_Raw primal instinct thrummed through his veins as he crossed the water.  It overwhelmed his senses, guiding him thoughtlessly after his quartermaster’s retreating form into the forest.  He heard nothing, felt nothing, but the desperate cry of his every nerve screaming for Silver._

 

_Flint had him pressed up against a tree before his mind could register that his body was moving._

 

_His tongue ravished Silver’s mouth.  It licked salty sweat from every corpuscle of skin newly exposed as desirous hands tore clothes from the body before them.  It trailed over the arteries of that beautiful tanned neck, sending shivers flying through Silver’s body, reverberating into Flint’s._

 

_His fingers ran over the contours of sinewy muscle, stroking hungrily over each inch of Silver’s lean form.  They intertwined themselves among the silken curls, dampened by perspiration from the relentless drive of their bodies against each other._

 

_With feral eyes he watched as moans of pleasure and hitched breaths escaped Silver’s parted lips.  He drank in the whimpers of need as the defiant quartermaster, his defiant quartermaster, became pliant under his touch._

 

_Had someone called a halt to it then - Silver having doubts, one of their men catching them in the act, England’s navy returning for another bout - Flint knew that in spite of the overpowering desire surging through his every being, he would have relented.  He still had just enough capacity to have done so.  But the instant he first thrust into Silver, felt him tight and warm around him, he was lost.  Fallen so deep into the depths of emotion that he felt nothing could pull him back out.  The entire fucking island could have found them then and he would not have even noticed, let alone given a fuck._

 

_Silver’s body fit so flawlessly together with his own.  It moved with him perfectly.  Synchronous with his captain in this as in all other things._

 

_They had climaxed together and crumpled as one to the forest floor, an intricate bundle of limbs.  Naked, sweating, coated with blood and leaves and mud and come, in a state of perfect bliss._

 

_It was growing dark by the time they had the capacity to move again.  They cleaned up quickly in a small nearby stream as best they could, redressed in the remnants of their clothes, and returned to the camp._

 

_So overwhelmed by afterglow was Silver, that he did not object to Flint’s offer of assistance when his first attempted step saw him nearly face down in the mud.  Or perhaps it hadn’t been post-orgasmic bliss at all, Flint realised later, but merely proof of the final barrier between them having fallen at last._

 

_Teach was entirely unimpressed by their late appearance, Madi concerned, and Jack outwardly amused.  The well-pruned man made a point of repeatedly insisting that Silver must sit down and rest his leg after such an ordeal as the battle today.  Silver glared and resolutely remained standing.  Later, as they lay together on the cot in Flint’s tent, the first night spent in each other’s arms, Silver had chastised his captain for rendering both sitting and standing uncomfortable actions.  There was no element of contrition in his voice._

 

_If Flint had feared Silver would regret their encounter once the post-battle adrenaline had worn off, that apprehension was soon forgotten.  Silver had grabbed the lapels of his leather coat the instant they were next alone together.  He had his captain de-robed in minutes, and dragged atop him on the bed in seconds._

 

_Although their relationship had been riddled with a great many lust-filled liaisons after that first time in the forest, each laced with fire of unfathomable intensity, Flint knew that there had been something much deeper growing between them for so much longer._

 

_They were in every element of their being seamlessly integrated.  They spoke as a unified entity, moved and thought and breathed in perfect harmony.  Flint had been aware of this thing running between them considerably longer than he had been willing to accept its existence, and now that he welcomed it, the extents of it were without comprehension._

 

_At least, that was how Flint had seen it.  That was his fallible perception.  Such things were so easily misinterpreted.  The hope in one’s mind twisting the world to appease unspoken desires._

 

_Thus, when Flint had proposed that they enter into matelotage, he had done so without daring to meet the other man’s gaze.  He ringed his hands, fumbled with his sleeves, stared intently at the ground between them and at the unused buttons adoring the lapels of Silver’s shirt._

 

_Going from lovers engaged in a passionate fray to partners in what amounted to marriage, or as close as they could get to the thing, was no small step to take.  It was a commitment of the most sincere nature, and Silver had never been one for commitment before he joined the Walrus crew.  Maybe he still was not.  Perhaps he just wanted a companion to weather this war with and nothing more.  Perhaps Flint had misread entirely where they stood and his proposal was to be imminently and cruelly cut down._

 

_As he spoke, Flint realised he didn’t even know if Silver knew what matelotage really meant, so short had his spell as a pirate been._

 

_But he had been to Tortuga, and he had a knack for picking things up quickly.  So he had known exactly what it was, the significance of the partnership, and he had said yes without hesitation as if he had just then been considering the exact same thing.  Which, given their unified mentality, he might well have been._

 

_When they announced it to the crew, several had exchanged wagers, despite the generally accepted prohibition of betting on the ship.  Even Billy had joined in the gambling, rather unfairly, in Flint’s opinion, given that he had on more than one occasion caught them in positions that even the two master manipulators could not reasonably explain._

 

_If anyone on the crew had a problem with their relationship, they kept it to themselves.  Several had expressed concern for Silver’s welfare, but none presented any opposition to the act itself.  After all, to do so would be to oppose their quartermaster, and that was not something any one of them had the capacity or inclination to do._

 

_Billy had overseen the formalities of the ceremony at Flint’s behest, and the crew had opened up their rum stores for the night in celebration.  Silver joined in with their revelry for a few hours, relishing the company of his brothers while Flint enjoyed the site of his lover laughing in the bright white moonlight._

 

_They retired together to Flint’s cabin that night and did not sleep until the dawn had cast upon their bed its subtle pastel hues._

 

_The feeling of something tickling his beard had pulled Flint from a blissful sleep later that day.  He opened his eyes to a cabin filled with bright golden sunlight, a salty sea breeze, and the sight of Silver laying flush against him, head rested upon his chest and eyes half-lidded in contentment.  His fingers were playing out a staccato rhythm at the end of his ginger beard, moving in time to the jovial music played by their crew the night before._

 

When he woke in Max’s brothel now after another night spent hopelessly willing away the torments of Silver’s mind, he found the man laying in much the same position as he had that day.  But there was no contentment to be found there now.  Nigh-shut eyes swam with unbearable pain.  Too thin fingers danced to a melancholy tune.

 

Silver seemed to notice Flint stir and stilled, casting his eyes upward to offer his lover a soft, strained smile.  Flint wanted to believe it to be one of happiness.  A sign that he knew just how safe he was, lying there in his strong, protective arms.  That he knew nothing could hurt him within that embrace.

 

The hand resting on the small of Silver’s back was sticky with a warm liquid.  The bandaged terminus of Silver’s left leg was too hot against Flint’s thigh.  They harshly forced Flint to remember that even could his embrace keep the man safe from the cruelties of this world, it could do nothing to protect him from his own maimed body.

 

“How long have you been awake?” Flint whispered, voice croaky.

 

“Long enough to hear you try to raise the t’gallants in your sleep.”

 

“Was I succesful?”

 

“Moderately so.”

 

Flint quirked a smile and lifted his hand from Silver’s back to glance at the red substance darkening his skin,

 

“We need to clean them.  Your leg too.” Flint murmured, burying the worry he felt beneath routine activity.  He pushed himself up into a seated position in the bed, using the motion and Silver’s position draped over him to discreetly help his husband up.  For a second a wave of dizziness seemed to wash over Silver and Flint feared he might collapse straight back onto the mattress.  With baited breath he waited until Silver’s eyes became focused again, did not dare move until he was certain the nausea had passed.

 

“Can we leave my leg for today?” Silver breathed finally, watching nervously as Flint pulled the sheets off himself and moved to stand.

 

“Certainly.  To whatever extent you are happy allowing Howell to hack more of it off.” His nonchalant reply elicited a glare from Silver.  It was perhaps cruel to enkindle the idea, but Silver had known the answer before he asked, and Flint was not about to show him any of the pity he so resolutely despised.

 

“It’s not that bad…”

 

“Is that so?” Flint returned, raising an eyebrow as his head appeared above the collar of the shirt he was pulling on, “I seem to recall having a very lengthy debate with Howell, during which I had to go to great lengths to convince him not to do just that.  Among which lengths was the oath that I would ensure you took proper care of it.”

 

It was a half-truth really.  He had made such a promise to the doctor.  But the ‘lengthy debate’ had consisted of little more than Howell informing Flint that the extent of damage was so severe that he may have to remove more of the leg, and Flint informing him that he would do no such thing in a tone that brokered no dispute on the matter.

 

The retort on Silver’s lips was killed by Max’s voice from the doorway, “Forgive the interruption.” 

 

She looked between them hesitantly as if regretting the decision to intrude and stood silently as Flint hastily tucked his shirt into his trousers in some instinctive need to appear respectable before the woman.

 

“The brothel will be re-opening this evening under the supervision of Mrs. Mapleton.  I have informed her that you are both welcome to remain here for as long as necessary, but I thought you might appreciate the information beforehand.” She left the implication of her words hanging in the air.  Privacy and a good night’s sleep were not easily attained in a whorehouse.

 

Before Flint could answer, a heavily accented voice chipped in from the hallway outside.

 

“We have a spare room.” A muffled dispute between two men followed.  Then Billy’s head appeared round the door.

 

“You can stay with us.” He grumbled, his expression a contortion of exasperation and, oddly, endearment.

 

Flint was uncertain which of the several trains of thought running through his head to pursue.  He opted for the least important.

 

“You have a house?”

 

“Yeah.  One of our allies inside Nassau.  He didn’t make it and after the battle we knew we’d need somewhere to live…”

 

“Just you two?  Together?”

 

Flint was quite certain he had never seen Billy blush.

 

“Hardly think you’re one to judge.” He mumbled, suddenly finding the door frame beside him exceedingly interesting.  Flint couldn’t help but smirk.

 

“I’m not judging.”

 

He hadn’t in truth given it much thought.  It made sense though.  Billy and Ben made sense.  There had been no dramatic public declaration of commitment, nor any obvious struggling with emotions, warring with each other, or denying their feelings as there had been between Flint and Silver.

 

Billy and Ben just were.  It was strange, but worked somehow for a man who had never shown even the slightest inkling of romantic or lustful thoughts.

 

Flint cast a quick glance to Silver on the bed.  He was silently observing the exchange from behind his emotionless guise.  Apparently he had decided to abstain from this decision, forcing Flint to consider their options alone.

 

Miranda’s house was not among them.  There was too much work to do for him to be that far from the town, and he did not trust himself to take care of Silver alone.  He wasn’t going to risk losing the man he loved because of his own limited knowledge of healthcare.  And Nassau had only a rudimentary supply of housing, having been built up around a largely transient population who resided on boats and in tents for the short periods they remained on land.

 

That left them with two viable options - remain in the brothel surrounded by the sounds of climaxing men and women cleverly pretending to do the same, or take up residence with the strange pair that were Billy and Ben.

 

“If you’ll have us.” He said at last, quickly flicking his eyes to Silver, checking for any objection.  The mask had not moved.

 

“Happily.” Ben appeared in the doorway to nudge Billy.  The taller man visibly tried not to smile in response.  A strange pair indeed.

 

———

 

They waited until nightfall to move out of Max’s inn and head to the home of their new hosts.  Billy said it was easier to do it then because he intended to spend the day canvasing, checking his brothers were content in their new occupations.  Flint offered the explanation that it was because of the likelihood that his meeting with the council would overrun, even though it was finished not long after noon.

 

The reality of the matter, which neither felt necessary to utter aloud, was that they chose to move after dark to allow Silver as much discretion as possible when he struggled to make the short journey on crutches.  His arms were too weak to really support him on the flimsy wooden structures, and he would have fallen within metres of leaving the inn had it not been for Flint close by his side.

 

Stubbornly Silver persisted.  Panting with exhaustion and face contorted with pain, he persisted.  With the commotion associated with the brothel’s grand re-opening, they were able to make it to the house virtually unnoticed despite the half-hour it took to reach their destination.  By the time they did, Silver was stumbling more than he was progressing forward.

 

The only thing Flint noticed about the house that night was how unassuming it was, much like the couple inhabiting it.  He all but carried Silver up the few steps of the front porch where Ben stood, patiently and silently waiting.  The smaller man did not meet his former captain’s eyes, but cast a quick questioning look to Billy before moving to open the front door and wordlessly lead them to a small bedroom leading off from the right of a short rickety hall.

 

The room was simply furnished, with a single double bed adorned on one side by a low table, and an old dresser that bore the marks of impact from a pistol or musket at some point in its history.  A musty breeze skated through the window shutters, just slightly rippling the thin curtain draped in front of them.

 

“It’s not much, but…”

 

“…it’s yours for as long as you need.” Ben began and Billy finished.

 

Flint couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow in mild interest at their discourse.  With a nod of thanks to the retreating forms of his hosts, he turned and set about helping Silver into the bed, setting the crutches well out of his reach on the other side of the room.

 

There was no chance for quiet intimacy that night.  Silver was unconscious, passed out from exhaustion, well before Flint had pulled the thin sheet over his body.  His breathing was still erratic from having forced himself beyond his limits, and a thin coating of sweat glimmered on his brow in the dim light from a candle on the table.

 

Flint stood and watched his husband sleep for several long minutes.  Scanning his frame beneath the white fabric, he tried to call to mind a memory of the man before all this.  Some recollection of an intact Silver.  But he had been broken for so long, all Flint could remember of that man were blue eyes filled with a light so unbearably bright that Flint had seen fit to extinguish it.

 

Tearing himself from the hateful sight before him, Flint clenched his jaw and turned to leave the room, opting to distract his thoughts with polite niceties.

 

He found Billy standing on the small terrace out the back of the house, looking out to the dark ocean deep in thought.

 

“Thank you.  For letting us stay here.” Flint spoke without moving to join him, intent on returning to Silver as soon as his inwardly-directed anger had dissipated.

 

Billy nodded minutely in response, not allowing his eyes to leave the horizon.  Just as Flint turned to leave he raised his voice to hold the former captain there,

 

“Does it still count?”

 

“What?” Flint’s voice held more bite than he intended.  He was becoming impatient.  He had left Silver alone too long already…what if he were to wake from a nightmare without Flint beside him?  Alone and afraid, haunted by demons with no one to chase them away.

 

Billy either didn’t notice or was unconcerned by Flint’s demeanour,

 

“Your matelotage.  It is, by definition, a contract between pirates.  As you are no longer on the account…I’m asking if it is still valid?”

 

When Flint didn’t reply he continued, spelling out his point although he knew Flint would have already worked it out.

 

“Shouldn’t you perhaps do something more…proper?”

 

“Marriage?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

Flint sighed and finally moved to join Billy at the terrace railing.

 

“I had considered it.  But…if our vows of matelotage no longer hold…if we are no longer bound by that contract into which we entered, then John has the chance to leave this.  To be free of me.  I cannot presume to take that from him.”

 

“You think he wants to leave you?”

 

“Why wouldn’t he?  He has suffered so much because of me, because of his relationship with me.  How can he still be standing beside me after all that?”

 

“You know him better than that.  He’s strong.  He will weather this.” Billy argued but Flint just shook his head sadly, looking up to the other man but refusing to meet his eyes.

 

“I’ve seen tortured men, Billy.  I’ve seen what it does to them.  But this, this is something different.  He is broken, destroyed, torn asunder because of me.  Not just from the torture, nor the flogging…  He has suffered for so much longer than that.” He swallowed thickly and looked with sadness out to sea.

 

“Back before all this started, when Vane occupied the fort and I needed to rally the crew to support my venture in Charlestown, he could have defected.  He could have stayed on Nassau and taken his share of the Urca gold.  But I convinced him to come with me.  I forced him to convince the crew to come with me.  Told him he was nothing without them, that he had nowhere and no-one else.  I convinced him that he was worthless, Billy.”

 

_‘Where else would you wake up in the morning and matter?’_

Flint’s voice cracked at the memory of Silver’s face.  He was disgust at himself for feeling nothing more at the time than pride - he had succeeded in getting Silver to dance to his tune, he had managed to dim the light in his eyes just a little more.

 

“He suffered a terrible loss because of it.  Irreparable damage.  And then, every time he tried to protect me from myself, from this thing the rage inside me was creating.  Whenever he tried to pull me from the darkness into which I dove, I broke him that little bit more.  When he played the role of quartermaster and defended the men from the monster I was becoming, I destroyed him.  Time and again I said, did, things to him that tore at his mind, and I watched him fall apart.”

 

_‘If you’re not strong enough to do what needs to be done, then I will do it for you.’_

Silver’s eyes were empty, lost, helpless.  Flint didn’t care.  Someone needed to suffer alongside him.

 

“Then when we finally found our footing as partners.  When I realised what this feeling inside me was and he realised the same, he threw himself straight into the darkness to join me.  That kind of darkness…it never lends itself to eradication by light.

 

“You remember when we first met him.  He seemed to radiate the very sun itself.” Flint smiled fondly at the memory and Billy watched as it became a bitter grimace, “Now he will never walk fully in the light again.

 

“And yet, despite all that.  In spite of everything he has suffered because of me - his leg, my words, darkness, torture, lashes, the gallows - in spite of all that he is still here, standing right beside me.  I cannot ask him to remain there, not now.”

 

A heavy silence stretched between them, punctuated by rolling brush of waves on the sand below.

 

“Flint.” Billy said finally, slowly, “I can’t quote a library-worth of tomes to illustrate a point like you.  Nor can I weave words into intricate tapestries like Silver.  So I am going to tell it to you plainly - love doesn’t make sense.”

 

He shook his head and continued with a distant expression,

 

“It hits you like a sail in a storm.  Slaps you right in the face and suddenly it’s just there, or at least you suddenly know it’s there.  Maybe it was for longer.  Who the fuck knows?  And it’s confusing, and exciting, and terrifying all at once.  But you know, the one you’re in love with is just as confused, excited and terrified as you.  So long as you and he are slapped in the face by the same damn sail, I don’t much see that it needs to make sense.  It just is.”

 

Flint just stared at Billy, scrutinising the words he just spoke, considering them deeply.  At length he quirked the corner of his mouth.

 

“You’re right.  The did not even resemble a quilt, let alone a fucking tapestry.  And I can think of at least three literary quotations that would have been apt to eloquently convey the same message.” Flint’s smirk became a soft smile, “Thank you.”

 

With that he turned to leave.

 

“Will you ask him?” Billy called after him, but neither turned to look again at the other.  Flint paused for a moment at the door.

 

He didn’t have an answer to that.  Not tonight.  So he returned without further word to sit awake beside his sleeping lover.  To watch shadows cast by the single candle dance erratically upon his face.  Waiting.  Silently monitoring every tiny movement of his features for the slightest glimpse of something to signal the arrival of his monsters.

 

When they finally arrived, they gave no quarter.  Silver was thrashing, screaming, almost before Flint could register the first flicker of a grimace on his face.  With painfully practiced motions he gathered the man into his arms, and bid those monsters be gone with clement kisses and whispered words.  He realised now how it felt to fight an unwinnable war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deleted and then reposted this chapter because I didn't like it... -_- Bleh! I hope someone likes it!
> 
> Anyway! If anyone reads these end notes, I am planning to change the title of this as it is heading down an unanticipated plot in my mind...but any advice on whether or not that is a good idea would be awesome as I am very new to fic writing in general...
> 
> And, as always, thank you so much for commenting!!! :D


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Silver had still to come to terms with verbalising matters of the heart. He could create beautiful utterances that dripped ripe with lust. He could whisper sweet nothings that spread warmth through Flint’s body and mind. But when it came to he deeper emotions, he was unformed. Silent, small actions took the place of words in those moments. It was utterly adorable and so perfectly Silver.'

Flint left for the fort shortly after dawn the following morning. It should have been exactly at dawn, but he had been both unwilling to leave before Silver had awoken and reluctant to stir the man from his rest. To do so, Flint knew, would be to force him back into a world of unending physical pain, albeit whilst dragging him from one of unrelenting torture.

Flint had therefore opted to delay his departure by an hour or so. He sat against the headboard, watching the slow rise and fall of Silver’s chest and the subtle flicker of his eyelids in restless sleep. He waited until the first pale rays of sunlight filtered in through the shutters before shifting just slightly so he might graze Silver’s temple with his fingertips.

That action, the soft touch, used to draw a small smile and contented hum from his love. But now, the gentle caress was met with a sharp intake of breath as Silver violently recoiled. His eyes flew open, terrified but unable to quite focus on anything.

There was nothing agreeable about the next few seconds. That period between sleep and wake when Silver still felt he was in the realm of the former. Where he saw before him nightmares and not the man he loved.

Continued soft caresses and whispered words of comfort slowly urged him to leave the monsters in their nightmares and brought him into the waking world. As he calmed, Silver’s breathing became deep and fast. A pattern familiar to Flint by now. Silver’s attempt to quietly weather the waves of agony battering his body.

Flint persisted in his comforting action, bringing Silver through the initial shock of pain he always experienced on waking, helping him to re-acclimatise to the sensation. Only then did he dare speak.

“I have to leave for…” Flint paused and reconsidered his words. For the fort? The very place Silver had been forced to experience the torments that plagued his sleep?

“…to meet Teach.” His amendment did not go unnoticed. Silver’s eyes were on his, staring cold and hard in search of the original end to that sentence.

Flint was hiding something. Trying to protect him from something. Silver closed himself off in retaliation. He did not speak. He did not resist or even truly react when Flint helped him to sit up in bed. He just watched quietly.

The subdued demeanour endured as Flint rose and set about readying himself for the day. Sat on the edge of the bed, Silver silently followed of Flint’s every motion with a wary gaze. Watching, attentive, but his mind not entirely there.

The dark gaze followed Flint out the door, and was still fixated there when the older man returned with two bowls of fresh porridge. He passed one to Silver as he sat beside him and began to slowly eat his, watching sadly as Silver ran his thumb up and down the handle of the wooden spoon in lieu of touching the food. Flint returned to the kitchen with only one empty bowl.

He left shortly thereafter, but his thoughts lingered in that house. On Silver. How small he had looked, drowned in the large tan shirt borrowed from Billy. How beautiful his curls had been, framing his face as they tumbled about his increasingly ashen and painfully bony shoulders. How intoxicating his eyes as they scanned the pages of the novel in his hands. A Spanish work of fiction that Flint had had brought back from the Walrus on their first day of victory, chosen specifically for its linguistic complexity. Intended to provide distraction for Silver, from his body and from his mind.

With more effort than he truly had the energy for, Flint forced thoughts of that man from his head, replacing them with matters of business, the agenda for the day. Diplomatic discussions were to fill the afternoon. But the morning’s work was entirely military in nature.

It was an unspoken understanding across the island that the naval forces of England or Spain, perhaps both, could very well arrive at their shores any day. There was thus equally unanimous acceptance of the need to rapidly train up a substantial militia and navy of their own in order to mount a defence should such a day arrive.

Flint had therefore taken it upon himself to work alongside Teach in training up their forces, which were currently comprised primarily of the vanguards from their crews. A dawn start had been agreed on by all to avoid the imposing midday sun, but as Flint meandered tiredly along the street toward the foot of the hill up to the fort, he was beginning to regret that decision.

The fort up ahead was as looming a presence as ever. Imposing even in its deconstructed state.

“You’re late.” Teach’s gruff voice called from within as he watched his ally ascend the path leading up to its large, open doors.

“I had business to attend to.” Flint replied curtly, only once he had joined Teach in the courtyard.

“Your boy? John Silver.”

Flint glared. Teach had no right to utter that name.

Holding his tongue in respect of the need to maintain their alliance, he turned away to survey the small beginnings of their militia, already engaged in sparring matches throughout the open space. They were skilled fighters, all of them. An attribute of most men who had at one time called themselves pirates. But they lacked the refinement that was attainable only through regimented practice. If they had that, Flint wouldn’t need to be here.

“For what it’s worth, as much as I find you as detestable as ever, there was no malice nor intent of revenge in my suggestion that we use Mr. Silver like that.” Teach continued, although his gaze followed that of Flint instead of landing on the other man.

“I don’t give a shit what your intent was.” Flint spat back, “It is done. As far as you and I are concerned, all that I care about now is that you play your part in seeing this place set in order.”

“My part being to defend her shores? Protect a dead thing just because I called it home once?” Teach had expressed reluctance at being part of the council from the start. He had come to their aid solely to avenge his surrogate son’s death. Nothing more.

“Because Charles Vane sacrificed everything to save it.” Teach’s eyes had become cold and enraged from the mention of Vane’s name, the reminder of what he had lost.

“Revenge is an empty, selfish thing, Ed. Did killing Eleanor Guthrie bring him back? Did it make his death worth something?”

He turned away and started to stalk away from Teach, pausing only to call back, “You want it to mean something? Then fucking protect this island. His island.”

Flint ended the conversation there, drawing his sword and addressing one of their men for a match.

———

The stifling heat of the midday sun was signal enough for Flint to call their training to a close. Dismissing the men with instructions to return two days hence at dawn, he was first out of the fort, striding with purpose down the hill towards the town and straight to Billy’s small house.

In the daylight he could see it more clearly. A shabby looking wooden construction bearing clear signs of damage from the battle. It had a small second story big enough for a single bedroom and porches at both the front and back, which was more than any of the neighbouring buildings. Most of the windows had a full set of shutters, some of which showed the remnants of bright blue paint.

When he hopped up the stairs and marched through the entrance straight to their room, he found Silver seated on a low stool at the dresser, a bowl of water by his elbow and a knife held in his trembling right hand. He was peering into the dirty mirror as he tentatively brought the blade to his left cheek. Blood was already spotted over the wooden surface before him and a thin stream of it was trailing over his wrist.

Howell must have been, judging from the fresh bandage adorning his stump. But the doctor must have left a long time ago, since Silver was not staring emptily at the space where his left leg ought to have been.

“What are you doing?” Flint asked, setting his sword down by the door and walking in.

“Shaving.” The reply was curt and frustrated.

“Is that what you’re doing?” Flint walked over and pulled the knife from Silver’s trembling hand, “Because it appears that you are trying to disassemble your face.”

“I can manage.” Silver argued, but allowed his lover to kneel before him and take his chin in one hand nonetheless.

“I know.” Flint wiped his thumb over one of the fresh cuts, “But indulge me.”

Silver leaned into the rough hand, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. The smell of sweat and iron mingled with Flint’s natural scent. He smiled and turned to place a kiss into the palm of Flint’s hand. Or…Flint had expected a kiss. Instead, the sensitive strip at the centre of his palm encountered the wet tip of Silver’s tongue. The man smirked cheekily at the startled twitch his action elicited.

With a laugh, Flint shook his head, “You shit.”

It must have been some hours since Howell’s visit.

Pulling his hand back to cup Silver’s chin, Flint dipped the blade into the water, washing it clean of hair and blood before returning it to Silver’s face. He began with his upper lip, carefully grazing just above the skin to leave a very thin layer of stubble in the wake of gentle knife motions.

After finishing the messy attempts made at the left side of his face, Flint continued onto the right cheek. The knife was drawn in graceful strokes over paled tan skin. Thick black hairs tumbled onto the dresser and Silver’s lap, floated off the blade every time it was dipped into the water.

He saved the underside of Silver’s chin for last. His lover was sensitive there. Delectably so. Flint took his time. Tilted Silver’s chin upwards and brushed the blade just over the termini of the hair first, teasing. Silver squirmed as Flint had expected and bit his lip.

He then brought the blade against his skin. Ran it slowly, so slowly, along one side, sending dark threads tumbling down to Silver’s lap and a shiver running up through his spine. He repeated the act on the other side, relishing in the involuntary reaction once more.

He could feel warmth rising in him as he brought the blade up for the final stroke. He brushed it over the centre of Silver’s neck and was immediately grateful of his knelt position, for the tremor that ran through Silver’s body in reply would have had his knees buckling were he stood.

He pulled back and placed the blade on the dresser just as Silver moved one hand to run through the soft peach-coloured fuzz adorning his own head.

“It’s growing back.” He murmured, eyes growing dark with lust.

“I know.” Flint followed Silver’s hand with his own, brushing over the beginnings of his ginger tresses. He had been considering shaving it again of late. “I have to…”

“No!” Silver’s sharp voice became low and silky in an instant. He stroked over the crown of Flint’s head again, “Let it. I love your hair.”

His hand smoothed down the back of Flint’s neck and round under his chin. Lithe fingers trailed over his beard, barely ghosting just above his bottom lip.

“I remember when I first really saw you. On the Walrus, standing over Singleton’s body. Your eyes were fierce, raptorial…and your hair…intoxicating. Like wildfire, licked by blood…Singleton’s blood.”

Silver’s hands started to caress Flint’s neck, his head, the sides of his face, as if stroking through the thick ginger locks that were no longer there.

“I fantasised for so long about running my fingers through it, letting my hands be engulfed by those flames. And then, when I finally had you and could do just that, it was gone.”

Flint’s breath was heavy. He could feel his body reacting to Silver’s every touch and each tome of his low voice.

“I’ll grow it.” He managed to rasp out as Silver leant forward, sucking the skin just below Flint’s ear.

“Give me your word.” Silver’s voice had taken on a predatory tone as he continued to suck and nip down Flint’s neck only to lick slowly back up to his ear lobe.

“You have it.” Flint could barely speak. Silver’s hands were moving now. Over his chest, brushing his hip, pulling the shirt from his belt so his nails could rake over the freckled skin below.

Flint was losing control. He could feel it seeping away with every new touch, each breath hot against his skin. His hands itched to touch back. To grab Silver and push him against the dresser. To have him writhe in pleasure at his command again. Moaning, squirming, sweating and panting because of him.

But he knew the damage that would do. The set back in his recovery that would result. And he could not bear the sight of his love subjected to yet more pain. He was simply unable to endure it.

With a deep breath and eyes fixed forwards he stood. Silver’s hands grabbed at his shirt to pull him back down, but Flint would not move.

“No! Please!” Silver dropped his head into Flint’s abdomen, hiding the tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. Flint refused to look down. He knew to do so would obliterate what little control he had managed to cling to.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Silver’s words were choked and his hands desperately tugging, a hopeless attempt to bring his love back to him. 

“No you’re not, John.” The cold tone of Flint’s voice was painful even to his own ears. But he couldn’t relent. He would not give into lustful want and let Silver suffer for his weakness.

The hands clenched tight on his shirt suddenly opened, and, with more force than Flint could have anticipated from a man so weakened, shoved him backward. He stumbled slightly in shock.

“Get out.” Silver didn’t look up as he muttered the words, voice low and dark and wretched.

“John…”

“Get out!” His head flicked up, enraged hurt burning in his eyes. Flint felt his chest tighten painfully at the sight.

He wanted to move forward, to reach out and touch Silver, to hold him and tell him everything would be alright. He begged his body to move, but it was frozen in place, trapped by the pain in those eyes.

“If you don’t want to be with me, I understand. I do! But just fucking say it!”

“No. John. That’s not it…” His voice was barely a croak.

“I’m nothing but a burden to you now. A goddamn fucking invalid!. I get it! But stop taking pity on me and just fucking leave!”

“John listen…”

“GET OUT!” Silver screamed, automatically going to stand, in his rage forgetting the missing prosthetic.

He fell. Crashed down into the dresser and crumpled to the floor.

Flint couldn’t move. He just watched as the man he loved collapsed. Stared in horrified shock as he curled in on himself, sobbing into the top of his right knee, pitifully unable to bend the other to his head.

Billy was right. It didn’t make sense. Had he any instinct of self-preservation, Silver should by all means be running as far from Flint as he could.

But here he was. With Flint. Begging for his touch, broken for want of it, and lost without it. He had bled and cried and screamed because of Flint, and yet he yearned for more.

It didn’t make sense in any realm of logic. There was no reason to it, no justification of the act.

But, Flint understood in that moment, there didn’t have to be.

With movements slow and careful as if sneaking up on a wounded animal, he crouched beside Silver. The thin body was trembling violently as it was wracked with sobs. He might have been speaking, Flint thought, but any words were lost. An incoherent jumble amidst bitter tears.

Flint gently pulled the shaking form into his arms, tucking his chin over the top of Silver’s head and stroking his hair in the same motion he had used when the younger man had been feverish before. As minutes passed, Flint began to make out Silver whimpering into his chest,

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Shh. It’s ok. None of this is your fault.” Flint whispered.

“I’m sorry.” The barely audible rambling continued, “I’m so sorry. You…you don’t deserve this. You don’t…To be stuck with a pathetic cripple too weak to cope with…with…even after…”

“Don’t. Please. What you have been through - your leg, the torture. Suffering you bared willingly…it proves you to be anything but pathetic or weak.” He was meeting Silver’s tears with his own, dripping them onto the jet hair beneath his hand.

“When I look at your missing leg, I see courage and strength. Those lashes on your back, the marks on your neck. They remind me of your bravery and compassion.” Flint’s words were coming unbidden, without thought. It was a state so unfamiliar to him, to not be in control of what he spoke, but it felt right in this moment.

“I love you, John Silver. I could never leave you. Without you, I have nothing. I am nothing. If I leave you, I leave every part of myself that matters.”

Flint reached under his chin to force their eyes to meet.

“Please, if you believe nothing else, believe that.”

Silver’s eyes seemed to search his as if looking for the lie hidden behind those words. The fabrication of them. He saw Flint’s heart bared raw and open before him, and there were no lies hidden there.

He let his head fall back onto Flint’s chest signalling his belief in the words. Flint had to smile despite himself at the action.

Silver had still to come to terms with verbalising matters of the heart. He could create beautiful utterances that dripped ripe with lust. He could whisper sweet nothings that spread warmth through Flint’s body and mind. But when it came to he deeper emotions, he was unformed. Silent, small actions took the place of words in those moments. It was utterly adorable and so perfectly Silver.

———

When Flint arrived at the council meeting nearly two hours late, no one brought up the issue of his delayed arrival. Jack paused mid-sentence when he opened the door, but the rigid line of his body as he walked in and the stern expression on his face dissuaded any comments. He took his seat beside Madi as Jack continued, not missing the concerned glance she cast at his tear-stained cheeks.

“If no one has anything else to argue on the matter, then I would propose that we direct our initial correspondence at Boston. With her time-honoured history of trade with Nassau, I would vouch that eliminating the particular aspect of her commerce we have to offer would, at this stage, verge on the cataclysmic.”

“Be that as it may, the threat of future economic disaster will do little to discourage her governor in the face of the threat our victory poses to his reputation.” Flint stood, immediately throwing himself into the political fray of their council, and in doing so ensuring his fitness to be a part of it was not called to question in light of his fragmented priorities.

“I’m awfully sorry. Do you have a more credible plan?” Jack’s incredulity was all the fuel Flint needed drive forward and take control of this assembly.

“The governor at Boston went to school with Rogers’ father, and has since maintained a friendship with the family. One that significantly benefits his reputation and standing in the courts of London and the colonies. Given that fear of lost reputation always wins over reason in English politics, I imagine he would sooner send a fleet of naval vessels to our shores than another shipment of goods.”

Convinced he had the full attention of all assembled in that room, Flint proceeded to describe the merits of delivering proposals for trade to New York and Carolina, and only then proceeding to the other colonies and eventually England herself.

The purpose of the meeting was to discuss which of England’s colonies would be sympathetic enough to their situation to maintain trade with them. The more of those that existed, the less likely it was that anyone in Whitehall would decide it a profitable endeavour to retake Nassau.

Flint’s proposals were followed by a short debate, primarily initiated by Teach out of principle, but ultimately the consensus decision was to follow Flint’s plan and send correspondence to the governors in New York and Carolina.

Over the course of the remaining daylight hours, and some way into the night, they debated, argued and reasonably discussed the particulars of the trade agreements. Letters were drafted and redrafted, deemed complete and sealed only to be broken open and redrafted anew.

Eventually, once all involved were thoroughly exhausted and as drained as their glasses of wine, they concluded the meeting and left the building with two complete letters ready for dispatch on the first ships casting off at dawn.

———

Flint had found himself becoming quite excellent at multitasking. Although he let himself become immersed in the political task at hand, a small part of his mind wandered, as it always did, to Silver. What he had said. The tears in his eyes and wretched tones of his voice when he believed Flint has some desire to leave.

Flint had never been one to accept the illogical. To pay heed to things that did not make sense. But Billy’s words kept making circuits through his mind. In love, is there really need to expect logic or sense? And does the lack of logic in Silver’s actions not provide quite clear evidence in favour of him being in love? Demonstrate plainly that his heart yearns and needs as one with Flint’s?

He allowed these thoughts to mull in his head well into the night. Turning them over and over throughout the discussions. Paralleling their political debates with his own emotional turmoil.

By the end of the meeting he was resolved.

He caught up with Max just outside the large steps leading from the doors. A meaningful look sufficed to pull her from Anne’s reticent company. She dismissed herself and made her way over to him, curiosity gleaming in her dark eyes.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” The title was so familiar that neither realised its inaccuracy until several minutes later.

“Your jewellery…is it made in Nassau?” He asked, thumbing the cuff of his sleeve and following the chain of her silver necklace with his eyes.

“Hmm. What manner of jewellery are you looking for?” She asked. His eyes immediately flicked to hers in suspicion. He was too familiar with women attempting to steal information from the heads of men under false niceties, and he knew perfectly well what this particular woman was capable of.

“I use different tradesmen for different items.” She explained, seeing his immediate reluctance to divulge more information on the matter, “One for my bracelets…another for necklaces…another for my rings…”

Her eyes might as well have been stars given how they shined with mischief. Flint raised an eyebrow and looked to the horizon, a small defeated smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Of course Max had figured it out.

“Come ici.” She beamed, turning heel to lead him down a nearby side street. She was quite evidently she was pleased with herself.

He followed her to a plastered building near the end of the street. Through the open door, he could see a small, weathered man with grey hair and beard to match hunched over a battered table, peering very closely at something between his thick hands.

Leaving Flint at the door, Max sidled up to the man and whispered something into his ear that prompted him to perk up and stand hurriedly.

“Ah. Cap-Mister Flint.” He smiled a wide and lop-sided smile, “You would like a pair of rings fashioned?”

Flint glared at Max and sighed. Apparently there was no hiding his intent now. Just so long as Silver was kept in the dark until he was ready.

“Please. Matching silver…” Max interrupted him before he could finish the commission.

“Hmm…just silver is a little…dull, wouldn’t you say?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Peridot and topaz…embedded in the rings…” She said thoughtfully, allowing her companion to cut her off.

“…in two bands flanking engraved silver at the centre. Nautical patterns of the sea, perhaps.”

“Not of the sea. Spanish style engravings. I like the bands though.” Flint was finding himself growing excited by the discussion.

The jeweller grinned again and almost jumped into the seat at his bench, grabbing a sheet of paper, quill and inkwell so he could start to sketch out their ideas.

It took nearly an hour for the three to agree on a design for the rings, but it was well worth it. They would be perfect. Flint couldn’t help feeling heady with anticipation as he handed the jeweller a purse of gold coins - half the payment for the rings, with the second half to come at delivery.

As he turned to move towards the door, something glimmering in the bright firelight caught his eye. A completed piece apparently on display for sale alongside several other items, all flanked by messy price labels. He picked up the delicate pendant and studied it carefully.

It was a generally accepted fact that Captain Flint lacked any observational skills when it came to the appearance and wellbeing of his crew. It was not a fact that Flint had ever denied or cared to amend. But there had always been one exception to that rule.

Flint had noticed immediately when Silver started wearing jewellery. Gifts from his crew mates, for the most part. Silver rings and necklaces. They looked stunning on him, shining white metal against tanned skin.

His most recent necklace, donated by one of the riggers whose name Flint cared little to remember, had been lost after Silver’s capture. Most likely added to the governor’s treasury and sold on before they got to him.

The pendant he held now was the perfect replacement. Delicate swirling designs reminiscent of the ocean surf, blending seamlessly into the abstract form of a shark. Two thin silver beads flanked a black pearl where the pendant was attached to a black leather strap.

He handed several additional gold coins to the jeweller and picked the necklace up with a smile, pocketing it quickly.

“An engagement present?” Max asked, giving up the sly act she had employed to bring him to the jeweller.

Perhaps the intrusion into his privacy should have been offensive. But he was too happy, too overcome with nervous excitement of Silver’s reaction to his question, that instead he just smiled and bid them both goodnight.

With lofty anticipation, he headed purposefully back to his lover.

The imposing dark of night did nothing to dispel Flint’s elated mood. He strode with a distinctive spring in his step down the street that led to Billy’s house and almost leapt up the few stairs to the door.

He opened it with joy and immediately stilled.

The house was deathly silent. The air thick with something terrible. He closed the door behind himself with a suffocating feeling of dread. Flint had developed an uncanny ability to sense when something was wrong, and right now, something was so horribly wrong.

His pace slowed as he neared the guest bedroom. Heavy breath caught in his throat as he pushed open the door.

He paled at the sight before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for lovely and helpful feedback. I am soon to change the title of this fic to 'In our minds, after the war.'
> 
> Re-watch Season 1 - when Flint kills Singleton, Silver's reaction had me reeling! :D


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'It had been a fit. Sudden and violent and horrific enough to shake even the nigh unshakeable Billy Bones.'

It had been a fit. Sudden and violent and horrific enough to shake even the nigh unshakeable Billy Bones.

He and Ben had been on the back porch. Doing what, Billy didn’t see fit to recount and Flint really didn’t give a shit to know. A crash from inside had them in the guest room within seconds.

Silver was on the floor. Convulsing, writhing, screaming. The tremors so sharp and erratic Billy had feared he would harm himself from them alone. His hands, too taught, twisted into claws, gouged at his head and eyes, pulled at his hair, ripped at his thighs.

They had to restrain him. Billy kept repeating. They had no choice. They had to do it.

That was why Silver was like this now. Pale and sweating and tied to the bed. A belt looped over and forced into his mouth like a bit, another fixing his wrists above his head to a post. A sheet tied too tight over his legs, holding them firmly in place.

The convulsions had stopped only minutes before Flint’s return, Ben tried to explain. He spoke in a quiet, rushed voice, trying desperately to keep at bay any severe retaliation from his former captain. Silver had passed out, and they were just about to untie him and fetch Flint when he arrived anyway.

The initial rage that had welled up in Flint at the sight gave way to despair as the words slowly fought through the haze clouding his mind. His body was numb, cold. Heavy limbs moved him unwittingly towards the bed so he might gently pull the bit from Silver’s mouth. With numb fingers he untied the restraints about his lover’s wrists. He removed the sheet from over his legs and folded it over, rolling it up to place beneath Silver’s stump as a support.

Finally, Flint removed his coat and draped it to cover the prone form.

Silver loved that coat.

He loved the way it accentuated Flint’s powerful body. He loved to inhale the scent of rich Spanish leather when Flint had him pinned up against his desk or some wall. Silver loved that coat, and Flint loved to watch Silver wrap himself in it, wear it and nothing else on cool evenings spent together in Flint’s cabin.

Perhaps Flint could pretend this was just another of those evenings. Sweat and laboured breath the afterglow of fervent sex, not the aftermath of some horrific fit.

Flint sank onto the bed to lay beside Silver. With his curls spooled about him like a black halo and red, swollen lips just slightly parted, laying there wrapped in the safety of the coat, Flint found he could almost believe his own lie.

He could almost ignore the scratches decorating Silver’s temples, almost dismiss the unhealthy pallor and harrowing emaciation. It really was almost just another post-orgasmic slumber. Almost, but in truth not at all. Every mark was so painfully prominent, right there before him to serve as grim reminders of the truth.

Flint only distantly registered when Ben took Billy’s hand and led him silently from the room. His own hands reached out to take one of Silver’s and bring it to his forehead. The skin against his head was cool. Soothing. Eyes closed, he kissed the limp fingers softly, carefully for fear they might shatter from the slightest pressure.

As he fell into a light sleep clutching Silver’s hand, Flint told himself that this was just a anomalous accident. A side effect of malnutrition or perhaps the heat of the day wearing on Silver, cooped up alone in this stuffy room.

When Silver awoke in unbearable agony - head split with a sharp pain, left leg burning right up into his hip, and back rife with a shearing pain from the opened lashes - he could remember nothing of the episode. Flint saw no need to worry him about an isolated incident. He did not need to know the details of an episode that would never see itself repeated.

So Flint claimed he had collapsed and Silver chose not to dispute the blatant lie.

Two days later the second fit came.

Flint was present this time.

They had been standing together on the back porch, watching the beach to see the first of their soon-to-be naval ships brought in for careening. Silver had looked beautiful, dressed in one of the new outfits Flint had requested from Madi’s tailor - a crisp white shirt, pale blue trousers and a deep emerald sash that allowed the loose fabrics of the former to hug his lithe figure. Flint felt as he always did in the presence of Silver. Too human. Impure and tainted - the dark cloud marring a perfect sunrise.

Their discussion was quiet, reserved for them alone. Silver’s head was close to Flint’s shoulder as he leant heavily on one crutch.

Just one - his chosen ‘fuck you’ to Howell for refusing to return to him his boot. If he was going to be forced into using the crutches, he sure as fuck was not going to be seen hobbling on two of the goddamned things. And then there was the small matter of the other having been found smashed to pieces against a wall the previous evening when Flint returned. Silver chose not to explain that one.

Flint was mid-sentence when it happened. Silver had collapsed so suddenly that Flint was barely able to catch him before he collided with the railing.

It was just as Billy had described. Silver writhed in his arms, clawing at his body with talon-like fingers, pulling at his hair, screaming and desperately thrashing into the ground.

The reopened lashes could be explained away easily enough - Silver would see through the lie, of course, but the evidence would be insufficient for him to dispute it outright. But the dark bruises on his wrists from Flint’s attempts to stop him from mauling his own flesh, and the re-cracked ribs from Flint’s weight on his chest, pinning him to the floor…they could not be so easily justified.

So Flint had been prepared to tell Silver the truth when he regained consciousness.

But he had been in too much pain from too many different places to even realise something was amiss, let alone to ask questions. And then, the pendant was so heavy in Flint’s pocket, so cool against his fingertips.

When Howell found out what had happened, he took to his texts immediately in an attempt to put a name to this new condition despite Flint telling him it was unnecessary. It had only happened twice, and two times hardly merited concern.

As the third began, Flint wished Silver had never introduced him to the idea that three might describe a pattern.

He stood beside Billy, watching Silver convulse against the restraints confining him to their bed.

Held down, screaming into the makeshift bit like a captured animal.

No.

Like a madman in an asylum.

Like Thomas in Flint’s nightmares.

Flint could recall having them every night for months after Thomas had been committed. He had never been to an asylum himself, but he had heard the stories, and his subconscious had fabricated those into warped horrific scenes playing out in his dreams. Images of that man, so full of grace and righteous valour, fixed to a bed as he raged and screamed and drooled like a beast.

Flint had loved Thomas. He loved Silver. More than he could find words to voice or actions to express.

And now Silver was there before him now, playing the part of Thomas from his nightmares. And who was he in this twisted charade? Asylum warden overseeing the ‘treatment’ of this madman?

A knock at the front door had both men instinctively reach for their swords. Flint’s hand lingered on the hilt of his as he followed Billy out of the room to greet their guest. The door opened to reveal the Walrus’ and now Nassau’s chief surgeon.

“I would appreciate if you didn’t run me through just yet, Mr. Flint.” Howell spoke as he brushed his way past Flint, uninterested in his natural need for violence - this was a man with an apparently unending capacity for exasperated patience.

He took in the sight of Silver thrashing on the bed and sighed deeply, waiting for his companions to return to their positions in the room before speaking.

“There are documented occurrences of a condition similar to Mr. Silver’s in a few of my volumes. A French physician entitled it ‘cauchemar éveillé’.”

“Waking nightmare?”

Apparently Ben knew French. Billy’s impressed glance and the blush it elicited in Ben drew a slight eyebrow raise from the doctor. He continued unphased.

“Indeed. This physician theorised that the condition results from a trauma so great that the mind refuses to acknowledge it. When something stirs memory of the trauma, so begins the waking nightmare, or as we see it, a fit.”

He paused to brush his hands over the front of his waistcoat, almost as if drying blood from his hands, some sort of habit from too many bloody operations on men with a predisposition for fighting.

“There are others who say the memory need not be suppressed, but just that it is so horrible and vivid that it induces these episodes. Another theory holds that the condition arises in patients who see things that are not truly there - hallucinations of a sort - and when the imagined becomes more vivid than reality, the patient enters into what we see as a fit, but to them is a reasonable reaction to the events they are part of.”

Flint looked over at Silver, still writhing under the restraints holding him to the bed.

“He is not mad.”

“I am not saying that he is. It is just one of several theories.” The convulsions were starting to calm into tremors. Howell briefly looked Silver over once to assess the change in movement patterns before continuing.

“Now, this French doctor, based on his theory, proposes that the best way to manage the condition is to ensure the patient avoids potential triggers of the memory, or at the very least, stressful situations.”

“Well, that’s certainly out of the question.” Billy snorted, ignoring Flint’s sharp glare.

“I agree. And, it relies on belief of a suppressed trauma being the cause…” Howell then pulled a long sheet of paper from his waistcoat pocket, “Fortunately, I hope, a physician in Belgium describes a similar condition and offers instructions for preparing a tonic he believes helps lessen the frequency of the fits.”

He handed the paper to Flint.

“Those are the ingredients necessary to prepare it. I can obtain perhaps half on Nassau at present, and know that several others are frequently received on shipments from the colonies. But those two,” he pointed to two plant names that Flint was quite certain he didn’t recognise, “I will need to obtain them from elsewhere or find a replacement.”

Stillness on the bed pulled Flint from the discussion. The fit had reached its finale, and Silver was now shivering from the cooling sweat on his skin.

Howell continued to speak as they untied him and prepared the bed, Flint taking his place seated at Silver’s side to mop the perspiration from his forehead.

“I can try to prepare the tonic with what I have available. I believe it ought to be possible to find substitutions for most of the components. But it will take some days to test alternatives. During that time, I wish to put Mr. Silver under opium to reduce the severity of these episodes.”

“No.”

“His recovery will be severely delayed if he continues in this way.”

“He managed to recover fine from an amputation without needing it.”

“That was a clean wound, taken care of immediately. These injuries are not, and if they do not start healing very soon, no amount of medicine will be able to keep an infection at bay. Right now, his body simply could not withstand that. Just a short period to let his wounds start to recover would…”

“I said no!” Flint yelled, taking on the ferocity for which he was feared throughout the New World.

Howell winced at the outburst, having grown used to a more docile version of Captain Flint. He sighed and cast a sad glance over Silver.

“I will be by in the morning.” He muttered, turning to withdraw. Ben followed, perhaps out of need to show a guest out or more likely from a sense of the tension growing in that room.

The door shut quietly behind them leaving Billy alone with Flint.

He waited until Howell’s footsteps faded into the background sounds of Nassau at night before breaking the pregnant silence.

“Why?”

Flint didn’t look up. His eyes were following the movement of his own hand brushing over Silver’s hair.

“Why what?”

“Why refuse the opium? Why not take away some of his pain for a while, and give both you and Howell some rest?”

“I don’t need to explain my decisions to you, Billy.”

“Yes you do when those decisions put this island and everyone on it at risk.”

The hand on Silver’s head stilled.

“Look at yourself!” Billy found himself shouting, tired and worried and sick of endless secrets and lies from this man.

“You’re exhausted! Between Silver’s fits and nightmares, when is the last time you got any goddamn sleep? If you don’t rest, how the hell can you hope to contribute to Nassau’s establishment in any beneficial way? You’re going to do more harm than good if you carry on like this.”

Flint sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away his incessant headache.

“I swore to John I would never subject him to opium, no matter what state he was in.”

“Perhaps you ought break that promise now - neither of you exactly have a rich history of keeping your word.”

“In this I will.” Flint gritted through his teeth.

Indeed, had they still been on the Walrus, still been Captain and First Mate, still had that hierarchy to govern the balance of control, Billy might at that point have relented. But they were not and Billy’s time as an agitator had given him the resolve not to let himself be pushed over by anyone.

“What can be so important it is worth risking the future of this entire place?”

“That is none of your concern.” Flint growled back. This should be finished, but Billy refused to back down.

“Yes it is, dammit!” He yelled, stepping closer to Flint to lean into him, “Because if his idiotic pride or fear of letting loose some secret causes this island to fall, then what? Every life lost to win it back becomes in vain? Are you really willing to…”

“He was abducted by some fuck of a merchant captain. Held and used as his fucking whore for months.” Flint finally turned to glare up at Billy, “Couldn’t do anything to defend himself, to stop it, because the bastard had him drugged. Under such a heavy cloud of fuck knows what, that he was utterly helpless. Surprisingly, that is not a feeling he is keen to relive.”

Billy stilled.

“I didn’t know.”

“No. You didn’t. And you had no reason to. Now that you do, perhaps you will leave the matter be.”

Flint turned back to Silver, casting a glance over his fragile body, “We will manage without opium.”

Suddenly realisation hit Billy.

“The Marie Swanne…her captain…”

“Is the man who took John, yes.”

A few months before their retaking of Nassau, the Walrus had hunted a merchant ship, the Marie Swanne. Not especially rich but she had yielded some new guns, a reasonable amount of coin, and a good stash of wine to keep the men happy. Silver had boarded the prize, something he almost never did. Making the journey between two ships was no easy task with one leg.

Billy had found that strange enough. But what stuck with him was what Silver did once on the ship. He pinned the captain, a large balding man, to the deck by planting his peg leg firmly in his groin. With a dark expression, Silver had levelled his pistol to the man’s head and fired without hesitation. Flint watched on with no concern for his quartermaster’s brutality, and the crew had thoroughly enjoyed the show.

“Damned be the men who cross Long John Silver.” Billy muttered after a long silence. With that he finally left, pausing at the door briefly.

“Take the opium. He will weather it.”

Flint said nothing and resumed brushing one hand through Silver’s hair.

———

When a nightmare woke Silver later that night, Flint was beside him. Held him. Stroked his back and hair until the sobs died away. Neither went back to sleep after that. They lay awake, reading the Spanish novel by candlelight. Flint didn’t understand most of it and Silver’s eyes did little beyond stare emptily at the pages, but they both made the pretence of following the story for each other’s sakes.

As dawn broke, Silver watched Flint ready himself for a day of meetings on agricultural development. He sat on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. Flint questioned if it did not hurt his back. Silver smiled weakly and replied that it was a welcome change to experience pain from some place other than just his missing left leg. They exchanged no further words.

He had another fit while Flint was with the council. Howell had been there at the time to oversee it, assisted by Ben. When Flint returned, the evidence of the episode was strewn about the room in the form of various leather straps and a basin of water.

Silver lay awake in the bed. Eyes open and unseeing, empty. Flint talked to him. Discussed agriculture. Discussed warfare. Discussed what little he knew of the current goings on among their men.

Silver said nothing. Just stared at Flint with a sad look in his eyes, and just once tried to reach up to touch his face, but found his arm to weak to do so. It fell back to the bed with the empty expression on his face unchanged.

He had not even managed to recover enough strength to sit upright before the next fit came that evening. Flint restrained him, but with Silver having become so weak, doing so now required no assistance from his hosts. Ben brought him a cup of tea after it was done and Billy offered a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he left Flint alone to take care of his fading lover.

———

“We received a letter from Spain.” A day later, Flint found himself standing by the window, listening to the sounds of Nassau at dawn. Trundling carts and opening doors. Carpets and sheets being shaken free of dust out of windows. A dog pattering along the dirty road.

He did not look at the sources of those sounds. He knew their faces so well by now. Instead his eyes followed the subtle decorations of the silver pendant turning about in his hands. Cool against his skin. Almost painfully cold.

Silver was on the bed, eyes firmly shut and breath coming in shallow gasps. He hadn’t moved since his last fit the previous afternoon.

“They have extended to us the same terms as they offered Rogers - hand over the rest of the Urca cash and Rackham, or they will raze Nassau to the ground.”

Flint spoke to the unhearing room.

“Returning the cash is no significant problem. Certainly it would be useful coin to help build our defences, but it is by no means essential. The issue at hand appears to be the fate of Jack Rackham.”

He pocketed the pendant and began to pace,

“As you might expect, four of our council of six voted against handing him over to the Spanish. Thus, I offered the most logical alternative. That we return the cash and claim Rackham to have been killed in the battle with Rogers’ forces. But, that led to even more discord among our company.”

Flint laughed a cold, forced laugh as he stopped in front of the window again.

“Apparently, losing the name is a worse fate for Mr. Rackham than losing his life would be. Of course, Anne agreed with him and Max with her - I believe she stills feels some guilt over what she did under Rogers’ rule and will do whatever she needs to in order to win back Anne’s trust.”

The pacing resumed.

“Therefore, even if Teach were to vote with Madi and I in favour of this plan, we would remain at an impasse. We could, of course, go to swords and pistols for the solution but that would cull our number by at least three and leave us with an army of escaped slaves to add to our list of adversaries…not to mention what it does to the prospects of forming a civilised nation.”

He stopped pacing and turned to look at the pale, thin face.

“I don’t see a way out of this, John.” Flint’s voice cracked, “So, if you happen to have one of your absurd, ridiculously unorthodox ideas that by some miracle of fate manages to succeed, now would be an excellent time to share it.”

Silver did not move.

Flint hadn’t expected an answer. Had not even dared hope for one. But when the reality of that fact presented himself, every last tendril of strength he was clinging to snapped.

His knees gave way as his mind finally gave up. He sank to the floor against one wall sobbing into the palms of his hands. The pendant hung limply from his fingers.

“Dammit John. Please. Please don’t leave me alone. I don’t want to be alone.”

His choked voice filled the stifling silence, and in his grief, Flint did not feel the sad blue eyes watching him.

———

With the toll of a bell, Flint left the house an hour or so later. He spoke not a word to Billy as he passed him in the hallway. He said nothing to Teach when they met at the fort. He sparred and commanded and reprimanded. Trained the militia. Acted out his role as lieutenant perfectly.

The fighting had done little to calm the raging storm of emotions in his mind. Silver could do that. Only Silver could find him within the tempest of his thoughts. Only he could reach in and pull him back out of that dark abyss.

He imagined that man now. Pictured him wearing the pendant, how it would sparkle against his tanned chest, left exposed by the open V of a soft white shirt. How it would glimmer like his eyes and the azure satin sash tied about his waist. How it’s patterns would swirl and align with those of a delicately embroidered waistcoat of pale grey.

He saw Silver standing before him. He saw himself taking one strong hand in his to place the silver, emerald and lapis lazuli wedding band over his finger. He saw a smile light up Silver’s features. And he saw that smile reach his eyes. That smile belonged to John Silver, not to the shadow of that man undone - broken, fragmented and lost to countless tragedies.

Flint wanted to hold that scene in his mind, to cling to it, but what greeted him on returning to the house shattered the dream. The room was empty and clean. The bed made. Silver’s crutch, his one shoe, his clothes - all absent. Only the Spanish novel remained to lay dormant on one side of the bed.

Coat swirling in his wake, Flint stormed to where Billy stood at the back porch with Ben.

“Where is he?!” His voice was higher and more cracked than he intended.

Billy didn’t turn to face him, but Flint could see the way his shoulders slumped and hear the tired sadness in his voice as he whispered but a single word. A word that made Flint’s blood run cold. A word he might have feared more than almost any other.

“Gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for lovely lovely comments. :) I hope you enjoyed this update...finally back from holiday so hopefully I will be able to post the next chapter a bit more quickly than this one.


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow he found his way back to the house. Back to their room - his room, now. An empty, lonely room that was stifling in the day and too cold at night without Silver to clear the air with his smile or lay warm in Flint’s arms. There was nothing about the room, the house, the entire fucking island that felt right anymore. Everything was bitter and dark without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this needs some explaining as there are a few flashbacks in this - they are in italics.

———

“Gone? What the fuck do you mean ‘gone’?!”

Billy did not turn around to confront Flint’s rage. He seemed to simply lack the energy to do so. 

“Howell came and took him shortly after you left this morning.” His voice was solemn and quiet, almost drowned by the sound of waves lapping the beach.

Flint turned to leave, to march down to the infirmary and demand the doctor return Silver to him, but Billy’s words stopped him dead.

“They left Nassau.”

Flint found his voice almost abandoning him, barely coming out as a whisper, “Where?”

Billy stayed silent, unable to craft a response to that.

“Where the fuck did they go, Billy?!”

Flint realised, as the taller man turned and the worry on his face became at last visible, that he did not want to hear the answer. He already knew it.

Ben looked up to his partner for a moment, considering, before he slowly replied in Billy’s stead without meeting Flint’s enraged gaze.

“The doctor said…somewhere Mr. Silver can be given the-the opium in peace.”

“Opium? Did John even consent to this?” Flint’s voice grew stronger, morphing into something incandescent, “Or did Howell just take him? Force him to endure it to make his life easier?!”

“It’s for the best.” Billy muttered, staring resolutely at the floor.

Without words to express the extents of his rage, Flint stormed back into the house. The dresser was upturned. The lamp hurled into a wall. The thin curtain torn from its rail.

 

__

_“I hardly think destroying every piece of furniture we own is going to resolve this issue.”_

_Silver stood by the door, watching unimpressed as Flint raged through his cabin._

_“He had one fucking job! “ Papers flew across the room._

_“One small task, and he does what?!” There was a shattering of glass as an empty wine bottle slammed into the wall behind Silver._

_“Goes and takes his own course. Hunts a fucking high-profile, high-risk prize instead!” He kicked over a crate._

_“A prize well known to have an escort! An escort that is now docked just off our shores!” A candlestick was thrown haphazardly._

_Flint didn’t realise in which direction he had flung the thing until it hit it’s mark, colliding hard with Silver’s forehead._

_The force of the impact sent him staggering backwards, stumbling to try and maintain his balance, but within moments he was pushing himself back upright off the wall._

_Brushing a curl from his face, Silver continued unfazed._

_“If you are finished taking your rage out on inanimate objects, then perhaps we can consider our options here.” He spoke, taking advantage of the stillness that had suddenly overcome Flint._

_He moved slowly to stand before his husband, examining him carefully._

_“Now, we could…”_

_Flint’s hand was stroking over the gash on his head, wiping the blood gently away. Silver smiled and took his wrist, pulling it away from his head to kiss the blood-stained fingertips._

_“I’m fine.”_

__

 

———

With the first large housing complex complete, Madi was confident that her people could begin their move to Nassau. The majority would work the land in the interior, and some farms had already been prepared for their arrival, but a small number would live in Nassau itself working as fishermen and merchants alongside Flint and Teach’s crews.

The queen had approached Flint after the close of their meeting the following day to inform him of her intent and request his support. He had agreed with her plans, vowing to send two boats out to ferry her people to the port within the next two days. The housing was already assigned to be her’s to do with as she pleased, and no one had disputed that decision.

But then she took the opportunity to ask after Silver. Where was he? She had not seen him since that evening in the tavern. Had heard little beyond whispers of his fate. Flint forced a smile and informed her that he was recovering well, before politely dismissing himself to make his slow way back to Billy’s house, letting the cool evening breeze blow away any guilt from the lie.

With the growing darkness, lights began to appear within the buildings lining the street. People lighting their various lamps, candles and fires to brighten their homes against the shadows brought by night.

Flint almost walked straight past the infirmary. It melded into the rest of the buildings, lit up from within and cast in darkness outside. But there should be no light there. It was Howell’s house, and he was with Silver. No one should be inside that place.

With no attempt to conceal his rage, Flint stormed in. It was empty but for Howell, standing over his desk to sift through a pile of papers left there. The doctor looked up in alarm at the sudden intrusion, eyes growing wide as he saw his former captain in the doorway. He could barely open his mouth to speak before Flint had surged forward to slam him against the wall.

“Where is he?” He growled, “Where the fuck is he?!”

The doctor tried to force himself to remain calm, palms open in a gesture of surrender.

“He agreed to the opium. I took him somewhere far from here to be treated while I try to develop a tonic for him.”

“He agreed to it?! He was barely able to open his eyes, let alone talk!” The hands at Howell’s collar found their way to his throat, “How the fuck did he agree to anything?!”

“I assure you that he did. And he does not wish to see anyone, especially you, until…”

The hands around his throat tightened, cutting him off. Desperately Howell clutched at Flint’s wrists in an attempt to pull the stronger man’s grip from his windpipe but Flint didn’t relent. He didn’t even look to the door as it slammed open and Billy stormed in.

“Jesus Flint!” Billy grabbed Flint’s arm and tried to pull him off the doctor, “Calm down!”

“Calm down?!” In his rage, Flint shoved Howell harder into the wall, wrenching him up so his feet barely made contact with the floor, “Calm down?! How calm would you feel if someone took Ben from you?!”

Flint shoved Howell higher still, forcing his feet to scramble for purchase on the wall, finding the ground now too far away.

“What the fuck would you do to the person who took him?! Knowing they were torturing him?!”

“He’s not torturing him!” Billy yelled, still trying to pull the hands from Howell’s throat, “And I certainly wouldn’t be choking to death a man who never did anything but try to help! Jesus! Put him down!”

Flint hesitated. His eyes flitted to Howell’s reddened face, to his own hands tight around the other man’s neck, to the floor. He stepped back, releasing the doctor’s but keeping one hand limp on his shoulder.

“Bring him back.” His voice was but a whisper.

Howell had to take several deep breaths before managing to croak out a reply, “I can’t. Not until I have managed to prepare a working tonic.”

“And if you fail to do that?” Flint’s hand fell to his side in defeat, “What then? Allow him to die alone, tortured by dark thoughts and nightmares under a cloud of opium?”

“I will not let him die, Flint.”

“Do not gull yourself, doctor, that decision is not in your hands.” Flint let his eyes flick up once more to meet Howell’s before he turned to leave, no longer having the energy to fight these men.

He grabbed a bottle of rum from the hands of a man in the street, shooting him a murderous glare when he tried to protest. Flint’s rage was growing with every swig of the burning liquid he swallowed.

Somehow he found his way back to the house. Back to their room - his room, now. An empty, lonely room that was stifling in the day and too cold at night without Silver to clear the air with his smile or lay warm in Flint’s arms. There was nothing about the room, the house, the entire fucking island that felt right anymore. Everything was bitter and dark without him.

Flint screamed and threw the bottle into the wall, shattering it and sending shards of rum-soaked glass flying across the room. One shard shot back far enough to graze over his forearm, slicing it cleanly. Flint stared at the trickle of blood seeping from the wound, absently wondering if it would scar.

Another permanent fixture on his skin for Silver to catalogue when he returned.

 

__

_“And this one?” Silver was trailing one finger back and forth over a small crescent-shaped scar on Flint’s right shoulder._

_“My first assignment as a lieutenant. Got into a fight with one of the other officers on my crew in a tavern one night. He tried to take my head off with a broken bottle, but I managed to pull his breeches down so that he stumbled and missed.”_

_“How valiant.” Silver muttered sarcastically._

_“Would it be more so if I said I was defending the honour of a sanctified virgin?”_

_“Were you?”_

_“No. He insinuated that my hair colour was indicative of me being unfit to serve aboard a ship bound for the Bahama Islands.”_

_Silver smirked and raised an eyebrow before moving his fingertips to puffy scar on the other side of Flint’s chest._

_“This?”_

_“I believe you were there for that one.”_

_“Dufresne?”_

_Flint nodded._

_“…that was valiant.”_

_“The revenge most certainly was.”_

_Silver continued for some time. Exploring the various scars on Flint’s body, seeking out the stories that went with them. Fragments of Flint’s past captured in small pale marks disturbing the freckled, sun-kissed skin._

_The fingers were ghosting so softly. Tickling over his body. Flint’s pulse hastened with every new touch, his breath quickening as Silver’s fingers moved to grace his thighs._

_In one swift move, Flint flipped them over to straddle Silver’s hips. Pinning the man beneath him, blue eyes half-lidded as he stared up into Flint’s own orbs._

_“And you?” Flint sat back so he could press his lips to Silver’s naval._

_“I have explored every contour…” His tongue began to trail up Silver’s abdomen, over his chest,_

_“…every cleft and furrow…”, continued along his throat to the tip of his chin._

_“…of your perfect body…” His lips ghosted Silver’s ear._

_“…and have not found a single mark marring it.”_

_At that Silver frowned, or at least did so as much as he could manage as Flint continued to lick and kiss and nip over his body._

_He began to speak slowly as if a revelation was hitting him even as the words left his mouth._

_“I did have one…once. Fell from a window at an orange plantation in Seville and cut open my leg on a shard of glass…”_

_He glanced down past his stump to the empty space beyond._

_“I suppose I truly don’t have any scars now.” It might have been sad. Forlorn. But he was alone with his love atop him. Sadness did not seem an emotion accessible in that moment. And so it was said as nothing more than a fact._

_A statement that his body was free of such blemishes._

_A statement that made something hot burn up from the pit of Flint’s stomach._

_He grinned, the feral smile of a predator, “Then your body is entirely mine for the taking.”_

_With that, Flint dove in. He sucked a bruise into the flesh of Silver’s neck. And another. Then one above his collar bone. Continuing down ever further, nipping and sucking his way over Silver’s tanned skin. Branding Silver as his._

__

 

Flint had wanted to decorate the blank canvas of Silver’s body with marks. To claim that body as his, and his alone.

And now he had seen that selfish wish fulfilled. Silver’s body was maimed irreparably because of him. Those lashes and the scars they left behind belonged to Flint.

Someone else might been holding the whip, but the ugly mess it left behind was undeniably of Flint’s making. He truly had branded Silver.

“Mr. Flint?” Ben’s voice came from the door, hesitant.

Flint looked up from where he had slumped against the end of the bed, uncaring in that moment of Billy’s shadow seeing him in that state.

“I…thought you might use this…” He made to move in, paused for a moment to survey the smashed bottle and Flint’s reddened eyes, then continued. In his hands he carried a small plate with two swirled pastries on it.

Flint frowned at them and glared up at Ben.

“Cinnamon buns…just baked.” He explained quickly as Flint cautiously took the plate as if it might fly up to attack him any second.

He lifted one of the warm pastries to his mouth. It was light, fluffy and delicately sweet. Flint couldn’t smile, but his eyes softened without him noticing.

“Thank you, Ben.” He managed, taking another, more eager bite, suddenly realising just how hungry he was.

Ben’s face lit up and he headed quickly from the room without another word, unwilling to remain too long alone with such a dangerous man.

Left with his thoughts once more, Flint mused that it must have been over a decade since he last even tasted cinnamon. He used it frequently with the Hamilton’s in England. Cooked sweet dishes to suit Thomas’ appetite for them, and spiced various savoury meals with it. They would play a game of guessing which spices he had used whenever he cooked for the couple. Miranda was quite good at it, but Thomas just defaulted to nutmeg more often than not. 

Silver, he imagined, would be absolutely hopeless at that game.

They would have to play it when he returned. Flint would bake something for him. Something spicy and warming with cinnamon and nutmeg and ginger. Something that would make him moan with pleasure from the moment it graced his tongue. Then Flint would dive in to taste it on his lips, lick it from the edge of his mouth, and elicit yet more beautiful noises from his lover.

He closed his eyes and leant his head back against the bed, for a moment letting himself get lost in thoughts of the future. Of everything he would say and do when Silver returned. If he returned.

———

“I know what you intend to do.”

Teach’s voice held its ever-present air of superiority that made Flint’s skin prickle with annoyance. He glared back. They were overseeing musket practice in the fort early on the morning of the seventh day. A week without Silver’s smile, his voice, his touch. A week spent utterly alone.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your plans to marry that boy of yours.”

Flint ignored the blatant taunt and shouted at one of their men not to look away when the gun fired. Teach allowed the instruction to complete before continuing.

“Matelotage, I could abide. Indeed, I believed it to be in everyone’s best interests to have the two of you vow to remain on the same side of things. However, marriage is something different.”

Flint raised an eyebrow, “You would certainly know…what is it now? Nine wives?”

“Wives. Yes. Women. There are many laws in England that I cannot see the need for, but that marriage must take place between a man and a women. That particular law, I cannot see a civilised nation existing without.”

“Why? For procreation? Tell me. Did any of your nine wives offer that outcome to you?” Flint flicked his eyes up to check he was hitting the right nerves, feeling an inner sense of satisfaction at the irritated expression overtaking Teach’s features, “Are you challenging me on this purely out of spite for the failure of your multiple marriages?”

“You presume our council will permit the law to be amended to facilitate your wedding that boy.”

“I presume nothing. Of our council members, who will oppose this amendment? Jack? And risk upsetting his partner just to appease you? It would be rather hypocritical for Max or Anne to vote against it…that’s already over half our company in favour.”

Teach paused. Flint was right. He knew it and Flint knew it. They would need to establish and announce the laws of governance within the next few days to stay off chaos. That did not leave sufficient time to assemble a more diverse alternative council. And even if one was gathered, although there remained some unease regarding marriage between two men or two women on the island borne out by the rules that governed England and Spain, that was overwhelmed by support for the act.

Finally, Teach spoke again, unwilling to conclude their discussion on the losing side this time.

“Of course, it hardly matters in your case…word is John Silver’s not faring too well. Even if you do succeed in legalising your sodomy, chances are you will have no partner to share in it.”

“John is fine.” Flint gritted out. He was getting very close to grabbing one of those muskets and shoving it into Teach’s mouth just to watch it emerge out the other side of his head.

“After six days of brutal torture?” Teach laughed, “One of my men, a spy among Rogers’ guard, heard him. Screams, he said, so horrific they made his blood run cold. Said he saw one of the lieutenants enter his cell with a Spanish Boot on one day…an unloaded pistol on another…what do you imagine they did with…”

He let the sentence die off as Flint stormed away to directly assist the militia.

Their men, the men they would rely on to defend this port and home, could not be allowed to see them fighting. It would cause them to question the solidity of the council, to doubt the potential of this place to last. And for those who had accepted pardons from Rogers, they might start to question whether this had been a war worth fighting at all. Consider that they were better off before Nassau was reclaimed.

Flint, despite his rage and despair, could not allow that to happen.

Teach was wrong. He didn’t know Silver, how strong he was.

Silver would weather this. He would come back. And he would need a home to come back to. And Flint would give him that home, no matter how much anger he had to suppress or pride he had to swallow. Silver was going to come back to a home.

———

Ben liked tea. Flint had realised that from the first day living with that couple. He brewed a variety of types, varying from the floral to the rich and dark. When Billy went out to manage their various workforces, as he had apparently acquired a job doing, he was often sent with a list of plants to look out for and bring back for Ben to use in developing new teas.

And, for what it was worth, the tea was very good. Since Miranda’s death, Flint could recall perhaps half a dozen times he had drunk the warm beverage. Three of them had been in her house, from her delicate china cups, and only one of those with Silver.

__

_“What the fuck are you doing?”_

_Flint glared from Silver to the table and back again, newly repaired shirt draped over his shoulder._

_“Making tea. What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?”_

_He continued pouring from the teapot into a small white cup._

_“Where are the saucers?”_

_“Beg pardon?”_

_“The saucers. Tiny plate-like things the cup goes on to prevent spillages on the table.”_

_Silver raised an eyebrow, “Are you anticipating spilling your drink?”_

_“Just get the fucking saucers.” Flint growled, taking a seat at the table._

_They would drink this tea right or not at all._

_The latter turned out to be the correct option in this case. The liquid was far too hot and horribly bitter - Flint’s eyes widened comically and he spat it straight back out all over the table_

_Silver couldn’t help himself. He started laughing at the display._

_“Saucer didn’t…do much…ah…good…” He struggled to breath out through his hysterics._

_Laughter had become such a rarity that it seemed almost too contagious when it came. And Silver’s laugh had always been impossibly contagious to Flint. He had to laugh too. Laugh until his eyes stung and his lungs were screaming for air._

_“I apologise.” Silver said at last, wiping wetness from the corner of his eye, “To be quite honest, I don’t believe I have ever drunk tea before.”_

_“And yet I entrusted you to brew it?!” Flint’s incredulity was overwhelmed by his amusement._

_“It’s just water and leaves…how hard could it be?” The quirk of Silver’s lips into a mock-innocent smile was irresistible. Flint let one bare foot run up Silver’s right leg under the table,_

_“Very hard, it would seem…”_

__

 

———

It had been nine days. Nine days - the longest Flint had been away from Silver since their first encounter at the wrecks, back when Silver was still whole. Before Flint brought him to a slow and harrowing ruin.

The emptiness he had felt growing inside him since the day Silver left seemed to have swallowed Flint almost entirely when he woke that morning.

He drank rum in lieu of breakfast before heading out to the council meeting. Something to do with agricultural development plans and partnerships with farmers in the interior. Essential business for their trade plans to succeed.

Flint cared about it, he really did. But not today.

Today, he stood by the window in the meeting room, turning the pendant about in his pocket, wondering if he would ever get to see it against Silver’s skin. The street was bustling more than usual down below, he thought, or it could just be an illusion - the rest of the world still moving while his had stopped dead.

“Forgive the interruption.” A new voice from the doorway. “You have a letter.”

Flint watched on with mute interest as Jack moved to the door to accept their correspondence, thanked the woman standing there, and dismissed her politely before moving back to the table to break the seal of the letter and examine its contents.

Max peered over his shoulder, “From Havana…”

“Does anyone speak Spanish?” Jack called out, waving the letter about for good measure as if that action would beckon a Spaniard to the room.

Flint stepped forward wordlessly and snatched the letter from his hand. His Spanish was reasonable. In fact, he had become quite adept at reading the language thanks to Silver and his fondness for Spanish tales of adventure.

As he examined the page, written neatly in black ink, he couldn’t help but smile as memories of evenings laying together on his cot in the Walrus came unbidden to his mind.

 

__

_“Tregua?” Flint stopped Silver abruptly, interrupting the flow of his narration and earning a sharp glare in return._

_With his head in Silver’s lap and the book propped up on his chest, Flint was reclined on his bed listening to his husband read a Spanish novel aloud. Some tome about a brave farmer who set out to do battle with a witch living atop a hill…or maybe a mountain…_

_“Truce.” Silver explained with a slight hint of irritation in his voice. He picked up the tale from the start of the rather lengthy paragraph, unwilling to lose any of the story for failure to hold his tone of voice just right._

_But Flint had stopped paying attention. Stopped caring for the plot or its twists, for the characters and their tendencies. His eyes were trained on Silver’s lips. How they moved in rhythm with the songlike Spanish rolling liltingly off his tongue, laced with his velvety tones._

_He watched the way Silver’s expression changed with his voice. Subtle movements that matched the characters he was narrating._

_“James…” Was there a James in this story? A sharp flick on his nose said no._

_Flint didn’t excuse himself for becoming distracted. It was Silver’s fault. Shaping those tuneful words so perfectly._

_“I love it when you speak Spanish.” He murmured, reaching up to stroke his lover’s temple._

_Silver leaned over, bringing his lips close enough to mingle their breaths._

_“Lo sé.”_

__

 

“Flint.” It came as a dull, hazy sound. “Flint!”

Jack’s second call jerked him back to reality, away from those perfectly wetted lips and the tongue that wet them, away from the lullaby of Spanish words they fashioned so smoothly.

“Sorry. What?” Flint suddenly realised he was being stared at by their full company.

“The letter?” Teach’s gruff voice came from directly behind him. Flint glared back at him and resumed reading the neat hand.

“It informs us that the newly appointed Capitán General of the Havana dreadfleet, one Juan Fernandez, will be setting sail for Nassau under a flag of truce with the intent to collect both the cash and Mr. Rackham.” He explained, “He expects to arrive within the month and wishes no resistance from us.”

“Brilliant!” Jack threw his hands up dramatically, “Can no one among our company of purportedly brilliant strategists and master manipulators devise some solution to this predicament?”

“We have a solution. You refuse to acknowledge it.” Flint’s tone was colder than it really need be, but he was sick of this circular argument and he was sick of this day.

“A solution that fits your needs.” Teach’s voice again. Somehow it had got more irritating. “Tell me, do you ever devise plans that consider the fates of others?”

Flint stood to challenge Teach directly, “I devise plans that work. Which I realise must be an unfamiliar concept to you.”

“Rather cantankerous today, Flint.” Teach mocked, “Tell me. Is it truly because of the incipient Spanish invasion, or are you perhaps simply frustrated that you cannot act on your sodomitic needs without that invalid whore of yours?”

Flint fist collided with Teach’s face, sending the larger man stumbling.

“Touch a nerve, did I?” He laughed, standing tall and wiping blood from his lip. Flint lunged forward again, but this time Teach beat him to it, landing a solid knee to his stomach.

“Jesus!” Anne muttered, watching from beside Jack as the two men became engaged in an all-out brawl right in the middle of their meeting room. She turned to her partner, giving him a slight nudge, “Do something!”

Jack sighed in exasperation and levelled her a tired look.

“Darling. Can we please just let them fight it out?” Then, as an afterthought, “It is at the very least fortunate that we all agreed to leave our weapons outside.”

Anne looked thoroughly unimpressed. Returning her gaze to the fight, she rolled her eyes, grumbled something along the lines of ‘Fucking ingrades.’, lifted one of the sturdy hardwood chairs and slammed it down right in the middle of the feuding men, delivering one leg atop the head of each and shattering the thing to splinters.

They both stilled and looked up at her in a mixture of shock and rage.

With a glare she retreated back to her position beside Jack.

“Yes, well…” He began, as startled by the events as they were, “I believe what Anne was trying to say is that perhaps this dispute would be better resolved if we refrain from behaving like children. As a supposedly civilised nation, precariously still situated in its cradle I will admit, would it not be more fitting to simply sit down and talk in order resolve this particular problem?”

Flint stood, glared once more at his adversary, turned heel and stormed from the room.

———

The next six days were spent thoroughly engaged in work. Meetings, training the militia, drafting laws and trade agreements. Flint even spent one afternoon helping rebuild part of the fort. Anything to distract himself from the growing void inside himself.

Every moment he was not busy, it threatened to devour him.

His own darkness was creeping back into his mind without Silver to chase it away. Morbid thoughts came unbidden. Thoughts of his end, of letting Nassau meet her end, of bringing destruction to Teach for ever daring to insult Silver. They swirled in his mind every waking moment.

He had removed the pendant from his pocket and wrapped it about his wrist now. That small reminder of Silver and the future they might still have together. It was all he had to stop himself plummeting once more into his own abyss.

Flint drank himself to sleep each of those nights. He woke and set about his work. Found two bottles of rum once all business was complete for the day and returned to that lonely, dark room to immerse himself in the numbness gifted by an alcohol stupor.

On the seventh day - now over two weeks since he had lost Silver - Flint opened his eyes to the too bright sunlight, a splitting headache and a feeling of dread as he realised that the day was devoid of any scheduled work.

He rose groggily and headed to the bathroom to wash up and dress. His hair was now long enough to be messed up by sleep, sticking out at odd angles atop his head. It was still not of a length that Silver would be able to run his fingers through it, but perhaps it would be when they finally married.

Flint’s throat tightened. Silver’s voice in his head, low and deep,

‘Nothing is inevitable here.’

Flint laughed bitterly to himself and eyed the pendant angrily. Silver was right. Nothing was inevitable. Their marriage certainly wasn’t.

He left without bothering to empty the basin. He had to get out of that house. To do something, anything.

Ben was in the kitchen applying butter liberally to a freshly baked bread roll when Flint came in. He smiled up at Flint a little too happily and offered him a couple of the rolls, undeterred by the empty look he received in return.

Flint nodded his thanks and took the food, walking out the front door without so much as a word. He ate his breakfast sombrely, tasting nothing. The bread felt so dry in his mouth.

———

Two ships were tipped on the beach when he arrived.

In lieu of alternatives, Flint had opted to help with careening their to-be naval ships. It was far from ideal. Too mundane a task to keep at bay thoughts creeping in from the darker regions of his mind, but it would have to suffice.

Each ship was being worked on by a few dozen men, with several more scattered across the sand playing music, gambling or just relaxing in what little shade they could find.

Instinctively he sought out faces he recognised. Members of his former crew. People to stay well away from in order to avoid being forced to engage in social niceties.

He spotted them after a minute or so of searching. At least twenty of them, more than he remembered being assigned to this job, all seated together under the shade of a clump of trees.

Howell was there too. He certainly wasn’t meant to be careening, and Flint could hardly imagine he would offer to do it for his own amusement. But more than that, he shouldn’t be in Nassau at all. He was God knows where with Silver.

The doctor said something and a few moments later the men laughed. Laughed in a way Flint recognised. A way he had seen on the way to Charlestown.

With his heart starting to race, Flint moved closer until he had a view past the trees. Until he could see him. Until he could catch a glimpse of Silver, seated among his men and swathed in a coat thicker than the heat of the day should permit.

Flint found himself losing the capacity to move, let alone breath. He documented every inch of Silver’s form. He no longer appeared so frail, as if a gentle breeze would tear him asunder. And though it was a relief to see him look physically improved, his eyes were just that bit darker and his smile just a bit less able to reach them, signifying the loss of another piece of Silver.

Howell must have seen him for without warning he appeared at Flint’s side, having discreetly excused himself from the men and taken a long, circular route to get there. He didn’t speak. Or if he did, Flint did not hear him. His eyes were still watching Silver intently. Monitoring his movements in search new ailments or changes to existing ones.

He fidgeted a bit more than usual. As if he could not find a position to sit without aggravating his stump.

“How is he?” Flint asked eventually.

“Much improved. The trauma to his leg was considerably worse than I imagined though. I have not removed more of it, but I fear he will struggle to return to using the boot…”

“And the medicine?” He asked instead of commenting on that information, unwilling in this moment to consider how Silver might react to hearing it.

“Is effective. It will not stop the fits altogether, but it appears to be doing well at reducing their frequency. I have been administering it daily. Every morning.”

They stood for some time longer in silence, just watching the men laugh and joke with their former-quartermaster.

“Thank you. For doing this for him.” Flint murmured at last as he turned to leave.

“Wait!” Howell called after him, “He needs to see you.”

Flint didn’t stop. He didn’t so much as hesitate. He had too much to do before sunset. It was with a smile that he strode from the beach to the street.

This cursedly free day had just become a blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I'm sorry for any Teach fans. I like Teach, but I just feel like he would object to Flint's relationship with Silver...or well most things to do with Flint actually. He's not mean, just opinionated...
> 
> I hope this chapter was ok...and thank you so much for lovely comments again! :) You guys are awesome! <3


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'He hoped he could offer Silver a future. Something safe and lasting and theirs. Something no one and nothing - not their tortured pasts nor dark minds, not England or Spain or Nassau - could take from them. What he was about to attempt… He was going to promise that life to Silver, without any degree of certainty that he could actually deliver it.'

It was a familiar feeling. Standing at the bow of the Walrus with an overwhelming sense of apprehension. The sense that in only a few hours time he would be forced to navigate uncharted waters to reach an undefined terminus.

It was the sensation that preceded every hunt - would they catch her, would she surrender or fight, would she deliver the haul he had hoped for? He had felt it on the voyage to Charlestown, as he sailed into the tempest, when he stood on the beach awaiting arrival of Rogers’ forces.

What lay before Flint now was something entirely different, utterly foreign, and yet that same feeling persisted. Coiling in the pit of his stomach like a snake writhing in the undergrowth.

He stood, leant on the railing to watch the sun begin its steady descent below the horizon. The pendant turned about in his hands, following a practiced pattern of motions. Three turns one way, four back the other, pause to run one finger over the intricate engravings. Repeat. He had been undertaking those movements habitually for days now. Chasing away his demons with the image of that pendant resting just below the smooth notch of Silver’s neck.

The evening was pleasantly cool and calm. Waves lapped rhythmically against the wooden hull of the ship, providing a quiet backdrop to the sound of the hushed, excited whisperings coming from his former crew on the deck below.

They scurried about the ship eagerly, decorating every flat surface they could find with candles. Some planted in empty rum or wine bottles, others in ornate candle holders stolen from some prize or other. A few were simply wedged between planks or into cracks in the weathered wood. DeGroot was pacing the deck with his ever-irritated gait donned in full, vocally complaining about those candles he deemed to be a fire hazard, and even removing some from their precarious perches so he could shove them back into the arms of a crew mate.

The air of excitement carried by those men was almost strong enough to reach Flint up on the forecastle. But it was dispelled by the overwhelming sense of foreboding that came whenever he allowed himself hope. Hopes were, in his experience, so easily dashed.

He hoped he could offer Silver a future. Something safe and lasting and theirs. Something no one and nothing - not their tortured pasts nor dark minds, not England or Spain or Nassau - could take from them. What he was about to attempt… He was going to promise that life to Silver, without any degree of certainty that he could actually deliver it.

Only hope that he could.

He had nothing more. Just that intangible thing. That thing that had destroyed him before so many times. He had hoped to convince his superiors to follow Thomas’ plan. He had hoped Alfred Hamilton was not as cruel as Miranda claimed him to be. Hoped Peter Ashe could be convinced. Hoped they could save Charles Vane. Hoped Silver would come from Rogers’ prison unscathed.

He had hoped time and again, and it had ruined him.

Misplaced faith in that thing now could be the end of everything for Flint.

What if Silver denied his heart? He had left once - why not again? But what if he stayed and this course, this path chosen by Flint, finally led Silver to his destruction? That was the pattern so far. Why should it change now?

The pendant stilled at the sound of familiar footfalls on the stairs behind him.

“Sun’s setting…it’s nearly time.” Billy came to join Flint at the railing, following his gaze out towards the horizon. Flint resumed twirling the pendant, faster and more agitated.

“You’re nervous?”

Flint levelled the taller man’s shoulder a glare out the corner of his eye.

“Seriously? Jesus Flint!” Billy kept his voice low, despite his incredulity, “You took control of a Man-o-war, sailed directly into a tempest, fished two fully grown sharks, defeated the wrath of a queen, and then proceeded to start - and win - a war with England…and you’re afraid about asking a man, who is so hopelessly in love with you that it transformed him from a selfish perpetual liar into a half-decent human being, to marry you when it is too plain for words that he wants nothing more than to spend every moment by your side. I mean, the two of you have been eye-fucking since you met. Practically married since about a week after that…”

“He has every reason to say no.”

“He has far better reasons to say yes.” Billy placed a hand on Flint’s shoulder, forcing him to turn to look at him. “Silver loves you, Flint.”

“And what good has it done him?”

“Look. Let me give you some advice that my parents gave me. There are some things in life that need questioning, and they should be questioned tenaciously. But questioning love is pointless. To question it is to deny it, and that to deny it…well, that’s never going to end well for either party.”

Flint turned once more to face the horizon, casting his eyes to watch the glint of that pendant in the dying sunlight. He said nothing.

“I’m going to go fetch him.” Billy turned to leave, “Try to look at least a little happier by the time he arrives.”

Flint listened to his footsteps fade away, to the scraping of wood and splash of water as his launch was made ready, to the first few strokes of his paddles breaking the even rhythm of the waves. Finally, with a deep breath, he pocketed the pendant.

Billy would not be long. He would tell Silver that he was needed on deck. Two of the were men quarrelling over who owned a stash of booze found in one of their lockers, and he was required to resolve the discrepancy. Billy had tried to take care of the matter, but they demanded their quartermaster - former-quartermaster - as the mediator of this particular dispute.

That was the story. Silver would see through the lie in an instant, but come nonetheless. It was nigh impossible to deceive that man, but the act of attempting a deception would suffice to impel him to seek out its source.

Flint forced all his rumination to quiet as he headed down to his cabin. DeGroot clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder as he marched past, and several of the men looked as though they might have considered doing the same but valued their hands too much to attempt it.

In the cabin he had already laid out his clothes for the evening - a crisp white shirt and tight leather trousers, complemented by a polished dark leather belt and matching boots. All newly fashioned and therefore free of rips and bloodstains.

His hair was still too short to tie back, but he had managed to acquire some oil from Max with which to slick the short tendrils of it away from his forehead. The same product proved useful in curling just slightly the tips of his moustache in a style he had not bothered with ever since Miranda’s death and the war that followed. Such events had rendered his care for appearances rather minimal.

By the time he had dressed, done and re-done his short hair, used a damp cloth to remove the tiniest scuff from his boots, and finally returned to the main deck, the excited buzz of his men had dampened into a hushed anticipation. Darkness had long since shrouded the ship in shadow, but for weak threads of white light from a thin sliver of a moon.

“Billy’s launch just left the shore, Captain.” One of the men addressed him, as he stepped out of the cabin, the title falling off his tongue instinctively.

Flint just nodded, casting a quick look out towards Nassau and her glimmering yellow lights, searching the the boat. It was visible only as a moving object just slightly darker than the sea on which it moved.

“Flint.” Howell’s voice drew his attention from the waters, “Let me remind you that he is still not in a good way. Although the injuries are healing well, they are not _healed_. And his leg is quite precarious in its state at the moment. Might I suggest opting for positions tonight that will…”

“I’m sorry. What?” Flint coughed out, nerves momentarily forgotten in the wake of his doctor’s blunt address.

“Well. You two don’t exactly have the most subdued of romances…” At the raised eyebrow from Flint he added, “I treat you both. Do not think I can’t tell the difference between a battle wound and bruises from an overly heated fuck. I’m just urging you to opt for activities that will reduce the strain put on his leg and back…perhaps go for…”

The sound of irregular splashing against the hull cut him off. Flint had but a moment to feel relief at being rescued from that conversation. The source of that break in the rhythm of the waves became evident. The reality of the moment dawned on him.

The launch had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry - short chapter without much going on! Had a bitch of a week due to damned real life…but here it is! I hopefully will update again before the end of the week. :)


	9. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Will you marry me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update - entropy is a bitch, so to speak. Anyway, prepare for a spot of fluff...

He heard the pair long before they emerged over the side of the ship. They were engaged in the expected conversation: Billy offering help, Silver stubbornly refusing it. It was an exchange of almost comical familiarity, one that had taken place between likely every Walrus man and his quartermaster at some point. It followed the same pattern nigh every time, always punctuated with the two words Flint had long considered having tattooed on his lover’s neck.

“I’m fine.”

__

_“I’m fine.” Silver growled as his hand slipped for the third time, sending him almost face-planting into the side of the ship._

_It was the first time he had attempted to board the Walrus since losing his leg. Getting himself off the thing had been difficult enough, and then gravity had been on his side. Now, trying to pull his body up the rungs jutting from the hull without losing grip on the slippery wood was proving more of a challenge than anticipated._

_“Look.” Flint grabbed Silver’s free hand in his own and placed it on a rung two up from his head, “You can get a better purchase if you grip like this.”_

_He forced Silver’s hand beneath his to shift position slightly, “You are going to have to learn to climb using almost entirely your arms, which means adjusting your hold to allow your hands to take more weight. You cannot presume to continue doing things the way you are accustomed to - it will not…”_

_Silver narrowed his eyes and snatched his hand from Flint’s grip._

_“I’m sorry, Captain,” He spat out, “I didn’t realise you had experience boarding ships with one leg.”_

_Flint met his glare with one of his own, “Stop being petulant, Mr. Silver. I’m trying to help.”_

_“I don’t recall asking for your assistance.”_

_“I don’t recall implying you had a choice in the matter. It would hardly do to have a quartermaster incapable of getting himself onto and off his ship.”_

_Silver held his scowl for what felt to Flint like an age. By the time the eye contact was broken, he was quite certain hours could have gone past and the ship sailed off without them without him noticing. Their subject of discussion and the activity that had prompted it were forgotten the moment he began staring into those eyes._

_With a final twitch of his right eye in the frustration of admitting defeat, Silver reached up again. He grasped the rung as Flint had instructed and, at last, with a suppressed groan of effort he pulled himself up to the next rung._

__

“And I’m queen Anne’s ghost.” Billy’s retort was patient and only marginally exasperated. He was used to this by now.

“Then perhaps you might have found a more effective way of spiriting me aboard the Walrus.”

Flint was quite sure he heard Billy roll his eyes at the terrible pun. And if he hadn’t, Flint had managed enough of an unimpressed eye roll for the both of them.

The sound of scrambling and another repetition of Silver’s mantra, and finally the two appeared. Billy almost leaped over the side ahead to offer a helping hand that was automatically refused as Silver hauled himself onto the deck. He stood for a moment to catch his breath, panting heavily and leaning on the rail for support, before turning to take the crutch from Billy and opening his mouth to say something. Whatever it was died on his lips the moment he saw Flint.

They became caught in each other’s gaze, captured in a moment meant for them and them alone.

In that moment Flint could see it written in Silver’s eyes. The apology for leaving, the pain it had caused him to do so, the darkness opium had forced upon him and how he had been unable to bear it without Flint by his side.

He saw it all.

His expression said everything his words could not.

Flint nodded minutely. Just enough of a motion to break Silver out of their private conversation and prompt him to take a guide rope in one hand, his crutch in the other, and start his steady progression to the centre of the deck.

Some distance from Flint, Silver paused as if some barrier had just been erected between them.

“James…” He breathed quietly into the space between them.

“I know.” Flint cut him off quietly, allowing a brief palpable silence to descend upon them once more. And then his voice transformed.

A lover whispering words meant for two became a captain commanding a ship-full of men.

“Now, if you please.” His voice carried, as it always did, throughout the ship. It spread over the main deck, up to the forecastle and quarterdeck, even reaching the ears of the figurehead, and in the wake of that voice, the Walrus transformed into a glittering sea of glowing flames.

Every man on their crew had emerged from the shadows to light the candles they had spent the day positioning.

Silver stared in wonder at the beautiful world manifesting around him. His eyes sparkled like the lapis lazuli of their rings but so profoundly more beautiful.

“John.” Flint started, forcing back the wave of nausea washing over him as fear threatened to still his tongue, “You once told me that the Walrus was the first place you ever called home.”

He took a long stride to close the distance between them and take Silver’s free hand in his own, drawing those beautiful eyes back to meet his once more.

“It therefore seemed only fitting for it to be here, surrounded by your family, that I ask if you would make your next home with me.”

Silver’s eyes were searching as if looking for a hidden agenda, a catch.

“And I do not mean matelotage. Not something reliant on our self-proclaimed occupation for its existence. Not something open to interpretation as to its significance. I love you, John Silver, and I want everyone from here to England and throughout the New World to know it.”

He took a deep breath and finally surrendered himself to hope.

“Will you marry me?”

The response came almost instantaneously.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Silver’s voice might have raised itself several notches, “I fail to see how you even consider that question worthy of vocalising. Jesus, James! Did you really think…” Flint’s mouth over his silenced the verbal deluge.

“Just say yes, you shit.” Flint grinned, leaving his forehead pressed against Silver’s.

Silver laughed softly, “I’m quite sure I just did.”

“I want to hear it again.”

“You’re so fucking demanding.”

Silver reached up with his free hand to stroke along Flint’s jawline, over his beard, trace his bottom lip with his thumb, all the time never letting his eyes leave those of his love, “Yes, James.”

He leaned up to lightly touch their noses together.

“I want to welcome sleep each night with you pressed up against me. I want to greet the morning with your lips on mine. I want to laugh, and eat, and drink with you beside me, or not at all. I want to count each of your hairs as it fades from fire to ash, to watch that blazing orange transform into silver like some miracle of alchemy. I want to know the flecks of gold in your eyes as I know the stars at night, to navigate by them and let them lead me wherever you and I will go.”

Flint puffed out a nervous laugh, finding himself embarrassingly incapable of stopping an inane grin from spreading across his features.

“I would not wish any companion in the world but you.” He whispered.

“Peace. I will still your mouth.” Silver pressed their lips together, returning Flint’s Shakespearean excerpt with an attempted one of his own.

“Stop.” Flint corrected before moving back in to finish the kiss, “I will stop your mouth.”

Silver offered a so rarely-seen grin as he pulled back, “And how are you going to do that, captain?”

“You may want to wait until we are not in the company of our entire crew for me to show you.”

Flint reached then into his pocket and produced the pendant. As he leaned in to tie it behind Silver’s neck, to at last place it where it belonged, his fiancé met his mouth in another kiss.

As if attempting to remind the couple that they were not alone, one of the men started to chant ‘fuck’. The others naturally joined in. Silver laughed into Flint’s mouth.

“We need to figure out who keeps doing that.” Flint murmured, eyeing the crew warily out the corner of his eye.

“Rickies.” Silver replied without a moments thought. One of their newer members, picked up during the war. A half-decent rigger, but on point with a pistol.

“Well, what do you say Mr. Quartermaster?”

“I do have a responsibility to the crew…”

He joined their lips in a chaste kiss before turning to his men.

“As your quartermaster, it is my duty to put you before the captain. And so, before I go tend to _his_ needs…”

The men let out another loud shout of laughter and a good many cheers.

“…I shall tend to yours. Make yourselves comfortable and take up your drink. Let me tell you a story about a young man named Jim Hawkins…”

Flint smirked and sat on the steps to the quarterdeck just as their men all found perches of their own and grabbed for their bottles of liquor. He had opened their remaining rum stores for the occasion - an act of gratitude for their assistance and a way of getting rid of a large amount of the stuff in one night rather than having the men fight over its division at a later date.

Billy came to sit on a step beside him, offering a knowing smile that Flint returned in earnest.

“Never doubt love, Flint.” He said, pulling Ben into his lap and planting a quick kiss into his golden hair as Silver’s narrative commenced.

———

The Walrus had once been a pirate vessel. She was soon to become a naval ship serving to defend the bay. But for now, she was a stage. Dancing shadows on her decks became actors in the intricate tale being spun by Silver. A story of romance, betrayal, valour and lust. Of lovers consumed by the flames of passion, and of the bridges to their pasts that fire had burned.

Silver seemed to glow with that same fire, his skin tinged gold in the flickering candlelight. His eyes and voice were as alive as Flint had ever known them, perhaps even more so - bright and emotive. He moved with an unexpected energy, embellishing the tale with his own animated motions. The crutch became a prop rather than an impediment to his display - a sword, then the balcony railing on which the maiden was leant, then an oar on Jim’s launch as he sailed through the night to meet her.

Every time Silver moved to add another twist to this story, the pendant glittered were it rested just below his collarbones, perfectly in place. Where it belonged at last. It looked even more stunning on him than Flint had imagined over those two harrowing weeks alone.

Flint had been paying little attention to the story itself, too busy had he been in watching its teller. But he had got the gist of the plot…something about an English naval officer falling in love with a Spanish woman as wild as the sea amidst the war between England and Spain…and he picked up on the raunchy details that Silver refused to spare as he described the final passionate encounter of their lovers at the end of the story.

Between his explicit narrative and lusty tone of voice, Silver had the men straining in their breeches by the time he had finished. Some had even disappeared from the deck some time before its conclusion, at least one launch already having departed for the beach and the whores upon it.

Billy and Ben were nowhere to be found - below decks, Flint presumed.

Those that remained cheered and clapped as Silver finished his story, rising and making their rapid escapes to Nassau’s shore almost instantly.

“Goodnight, gentlemen.” Silver grinned to his hastily retreated brothers and turned just in time for Flint to capture his lips in a deep kiss and hoist him from the floor. Any of Silver’s usual objections to being carried were muted by those warm, soft lips on his and the tongue that was demanding access to every crevice of his mouth.

“Jim Hawkins?” Flint murmured as they broke free and he slipped an arm around Silver’s waist, offering intimate support for the short journey to his cabin, “Another lad from Saint John’s?”

“Perhaps.” Silver mused. “Or perhaps he was the first mate on that ship I crewed up with out of New York. I suppose he could have been me when I worked a stint at a tavern over in Bristol.”

He captured Flint’s lips in a deep, slow kiss just outside the door.

“Whoever he was, now he is an English lieutenant pursuing forbidden love with a Spanish maiden.”

He began kissing all around Flint’s mouth, his neck, behind his ears, “A valiant…handsome…strong…Englishman…with fuck all sense of self-preservation and the impulse control of a shark in a bloodbath.”

With his best shit-eating grin, Silver pushed the cabin door open and limped in, leaving Flint to smirk in his wake at the entrance.

In the moment between Silver disappearing and Flint entering the cabin, his fiancé had shed his shirt. Back turned towards him, Flint saw for the first time a glimpse of what that beautiful body would permanently become.

The puffy, pale makings of grotesque scars now comprised more of the flesh there than his perfectly smooth, naturally tanned skin did. One deep gash extending from his ribs down to the base of his spine was seeping a small trail of blood down the curve of his back, tracing the same path Flint’s tongue had so often taken. Tarnishing it.

Silver paused, sensing Flint’s gaze from the door behind him and immediately trained his eyes to the floor, suddenly stricken with shame. In the heat of that moment he had forgotten what his body had become. He moved to replace the garment, but Flint was there, close behind to place gentle hands to the backs of Silver’s biceps and still the movement.

“Don’t.” He whispered, nuzzling into Silver’s neck, relishing the feeling of the soft curls against his face. God how he had missed it. “Please don’t.”

He began kissing over the scars and scabbed wounds gently, ghosting his lips just above those still unclosed. Silver’s body was tense, the atrophied muscles of his back visibly taught. His hand gripping the crutch tight enough to render his knuckles white.

The self-hatred, Silver’s disgust in his body was almost palpable. Flint could feel it seeping from him like a tainted smog. It was sickening.

“You are beautiful.” He whispered, making his way back up to Silver’s neck.

Silver barked out a bitter laugh and looked away, a hollow self-loathing smile marring his features,  
“You know you don’t need to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Feed me false compliments.”

“And real ones?”

“Are lies.”

“I have no lies left in me. Not for you.”

With firm hands, he turned his fiancé to face him, cupping his chin gently and tilting it up so their eyes could meet.

“You are beautiful.” He whispered, holding Silver’s gaze with his own, “You were beautiful with two legs and but one scar. You are just as beautiful now with one leg and a hundred of them. You will always and in every way be beautiful to me.”

He stroked a wisp of jet hair from Silver’s cheek, scanning the blue eyes for any sign of doubt. Silver breathed out a nervous laugh and looked down to Flint’s chest, starting to trace one finger over the freckles revealed by the low v at its front.

“You fucking romantic.” He muttered.

Flint smirked and bent in to re-capture Silver’s mouth with his own.

Thin arms wrapped their way around his neck as Silver’s body collapsed against his. Fingers grazing the back of his head, his neck, slipping beneath his shirt. Those beautiful lips moving against his, that articulate tongue snaking into his mouth.

Flint grasped Silver’s waist and briefly took his weight so he could move them to lean against the desk.

This time he would be careful. Take it slowly and gently despite his body screaming to go faster and harder. It would be alright, Silver would be alright, if he was careful. He knew too well every injury marring the body of his love, every healing gash and broken bone, each deep welt on his stump and which ways it hurt to move it. He could use that knowledge to let this happen, let them both finally experience each other again. Let them consummate their engagement and welcome the future it promised.

So with careful movements, he began to brush his fingers down Silver’s sides to his hips, over the curve of his ass, grasping to pull him in tighter, closer.

Silver moaned as Flint’s tongue ran over his neck, as he bit down and felt the racing pulse beneath his lips. He broke away from that skin only for a second, long enough to let Silver relieve him of his shirt.

Lithe hands were on his body before the fabric hit the floor. Nails raking over his freckled skin, running along the firm contours of his muscles. They clasped the back of his shoulders as Flint dove back in to crush Silver’s lips with his own. Silver greedily accepted, using the desk for support as he leaned up to deepen the kiss.

Those hands were moving again. Stroking down over Flint’s ribs to his hips. To his belt, deftly loosening it and letting the leather drop to the floor with a soft thud.

Silver froze.

His breath caught and eyes suddenly became unseeing and wild with fear.

He started to tremble, something small but erratic, making its way from his hands, spreading like an infection until it overcame his entire body and transformed into convulsions. Flint caught Silver as his knees buckled, collapsing to the floor with him just as his fiancé began to thrash and claw and scream.

“No no no. Please no.” Flint clasped Silver’s head to his chest, kissing the top of it even as he wailed into the freckled skin, “Please John. Please come back.”

Only desperate thrashing returned his cries. Flint prayed to whatever the fuck he had left to pray to - God, the devil, Davey Jones himself. Prayed for someone, something to stop this. To bring Silver back to him. To return to him their lost moment.

Prayers were empty, hopeless and futile. He knew this well but prayed nonetheless.

What else could he do?

Forcing his mind to calm down, to focus, Flint quickly grabbed his belt to place between Silver’s teeth, transforming his screams to muffled whimpers and protecting his eloquent tongue. One hand kept cradling Silver’s head, a pillow between it and the ground.

He tried to still Silver’s hands with one of his own, but the thrashing was relentless and he soon broke one wrist free to return to clawing at his neck. His legs were scraping against the ground as if struggling to push him away from something. Flint couldn’t still them, not without forcing his weight down and risking re-cracking a rib, and so he just held onto Silver as best he could. Clutching him tightly and screwing his eyes shut, waiting for the fit to end.

It felt like hours before the violent movements finally ebbed away and Silver fell limp against him. Flint looked down at the body in his arms. Small scratches marred his forehead and chest now. Blood was seeping through the bandage at the end of his stump, torn open by the rough wooden floor.

With two fingers, Flint brushed softly over a shallow cut on Silver’s collarbone where the sharp edge of the pendant had sliced into his skin. Another mark to add to the unending catalogue of injuries he had subjected this man to.

His entire body felt like lead when Flint finally found himself able to move. He carefully lifted Silver into his arms so he could lay him out on the cot.

A wedding carry, they called this back in London, he realised as he took the three strides necessary to reach the bed.

How apt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and some more angst. ;)


	10. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He just wanted Silver to be at peace now, wanted his fiancé to sleep soundly - perhaps he could offer that, if nothing else, on this night of intended celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh! I am finding that the ability to formulate coherent sentences has been escaping me of late, so another short chapter and an apology if it lacks sense... :/ Also, I don't really write smut so I apologise if the brief vaguely smutty interlude has people wanting to smash their heads into their laptop/computer/iPad/non-Apple tablet/whatever the hell else people read things on screen! >

_  
Watching Silver sleep had long been a guilty pleasure to Flint. A self-indulgent habit that had begun after he lost his leg in Charlestown and was forced to spend night after night under his captain’s captivated eye._

_Perhaps it had even begun before then. Maybe when Flint came across the young man sprawled over some sacks in the galley of the man-o-war after he had taken a beating from the men ridiculed in his address. Or even when Flint happened by him dosing under the shade of a tall palm while the Walrus was being tipped._

_He had always looked so serene - as if he had come across some measure of peace that was beyond Flint’s reach. Eyes closed to rest thick black lashes upon his sun-kissed cheeks. Lips just slightly parted, the occasional soft moan or whimper or sigh escaping them. How long Flint had spent longing to press his mouth to those lips, to let his hand join the lashes caressing his skin. The reality of doing so had been more wonderful than the thought. His lips softer, skin warmer than imagined._

_Even in a dilapidated state as he was now, Silver looked utterly peaceful and indescribably beautiful as he lay beside Flint on his pallet. His features were calm, free of the tormenting nightmares Flint had been forced to watch him endure before his time away with Howell. However difficult those weeks had been, maybe they had been worth the pain. But perhaps it was just the gentle rocking of the waves soothing his mind for the time being, or maybe it was the comfortable familiarity of the Walrus._

_To Flint, it was of little consequence. He just wanted Silver to be at peace now, wanted his fiancé to sleep soundly - perhaps he could offer that, if nothing else, on this night of intended celebration._

_With a sudden intake of breath, Silver sat bolt upright, pulling free of Flint’s arms with so much vigour it set the cot off balance and Flint was forced to grab the wall to steady it. Silver’s face contorted as if trying to scream, but there was no sound. His breath came in desperate gasps as if the air around him was being drained._

_Flint reached out, grasping the back of his love’s neck firmly with one hand and bringing the other to stroke over his cheek, forcing Silver to meet his eyes. For a moment, he held his gaze, eyes pleading, hopeful. But barely a second later he had recoiled violently, holding his left hand close to his chest in pain._

_He began to frantically fumble with the wedding band adorning his finger. Pulled at it, wrenched at it, clawed at it, even tried to bite it off his finger. But the wicked ring held him in too tight an embrace. Blood seeped from beneath it to trickle in thick streams down his hands, staining deep crimson the fabric of their shared bed._

_From the edges of the metal, Flint could see thin black threads grow up Silver’s hands, creeping into his arms. They continued to divide and spread, covering his skin like the tentacles of some oceanic beast._

_Flint couldn’t move. His body was frozen - shock or helplessness holding him in place. Even when the threads reached Silver’s throat and his love collapsed back onto their bed gasping for air, Flint just watched, useless and numb._

_One thin, trembling hand reached out for him. Desperately seeking his touch. His salvation. The tip of one finger nearly graced his arm, but was stilled in an instant by a sudden loud sound._

_A gunshot. Perfectly aimed._

_The bullet had blown through Silver’s head and out the other side to implant itself in the cabin wall beside Flint. Silver’s body fell limp upon the sheets._

_Flint looked up to see the perpetrator._

_“Thomas?”_

_The man looked just as he had when last Flint saw him, right down to the little paper cut on his chin from a book they had been reading together in bed._

_“Why?” Flint whispered, words laced with despair. Silver’s dead eyes were still staring up at him, still begging for help._

_Thomas smiled, hollow and empty, as he placed the smoking gun carefully into Flint’s waiting hands._

_“It was inevitable, James.”  
_

Flint’s eyes shot open. His cabin was exactly as it had been moments before - nothing out of place, nothing moved. But Thomas was gone and though Silver still lay beside him, there was life in the wide eyes staring up at him through the dark.

“James?” He whispered, voice weak and confused. Flint took several deep breaths to calm himself, closing his eyes and willing his pulse to cease its racing. He heard Silver struggle to sit up beside him, placing one cool hand on his bare shoulder.

“It’s alright.” He murmured, covering Silver’s hand with his own and offering a poorly formed smile. Silver frowned and reached up to brush his fingers over Flint’s cheek.

“You’re crying.”

“It’s nothing.”

With a small shake of his head, Silver lay back onto the cot, pulling Flint down to rest upon his chest. With one hand firmly in place over Flint’s shoulder, the other began to undertake smooth, slow motions stroking over his short hair.

Between the soothing caress and rhythmic beating of Silver’s heart beneath his ear, Flint found himself quickly calmed. The nightmare became another dark memory to follow him somewhere at the edge of his consciousness. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be lulled back to sleep by the touch of his love and the sounds that spoke of his life.

Sleep had him so tight within its grasp that he barely had time to realise Silver was whispering something to him before it took him entirely.

“Your tears are never nothing.”

———

Two knocks. Painfully loud. A fist on the wood of the cabin door.

Flint groaned.

“James. You’re going to have to get that.” Silver’s muffled voice against his head.

“No.” Flint grumbled, nuzzling into the hair falling over Silver’s chest, “I’m cosy.”

Silver laughed softly, “I know. But you have to get it anyway.”

Flint shifted his head just slightly to glare up at his fiancé, drawing another quiet laugh from him.

“Fine. I’ll hop…”

Silver made to sit up only to have Flint’s palm plant itself firmly on his forehead, shoving him back onto the pillow.

“You shit.” Flint mumbled as, with an exaggerated exhalation, he rolled clumsily from the cot and began to pull on his trousers.

When the knock was repeated, slightly sharper and more loudly, Flint growled and marched to the door, flinging it open angrily to present to Howell the sight of his half-naked, thoroughly enraged, former captain. The doctor raised his eyebrows and shoved a vial of some thick brownish liquid into Flint’s hands.

“Silver’s medicine.” 

Flint stared down at it.

The damned thing was supposed to bring Silver back to him, to banish his demons to lurk definitively in the realm of dream. He knew it was not a perfect solution, but just how imperfect was it?

Howell sighed sadly, apparently not missing the resentment Flint held for the substance, “How is he?”

“I’m fine.” Silver grabbed the vial from Flint’s hands and hopped back over to the bed nonchalantly, leaving the other two gaping at him from the doorway. How the hell he had managed to hop over to the door silently was a damned mystery, another to add to the riddle that was John Silver.

“Come and see me later.” Howell instructed after taking at least a minute to frown in confusion.

“I look forward to it.” Silver feigned an amicable smile that had Howell rolling his eyes and turning to leave, muttering under his breath about looking forward to some reasonable patients gracing his surgery one day.

Shutting the door, Flint turned to see Silver raise the bottle in a mock toast before quickly draining its contents with an overly pronounced grimace.

“This is, without question, the most foul thing that I have ever had the misfortune of putting in my mouth.”

Flint raised an eyebrow, “Have you eaten your own cooking?”

“Given my fondness for self-preservation, no.”

Flint found himself questioning that supposed fondness. Perhaps Silver had never been one for self-preservation, and that was why he threw himself into a life with Flint. Or maybe it had simply been discarded in favour of that life.

Too tired to dwell on possibilities, truths and pasts, Flint just shook his head and went to his desk to half-fill a cup with rum.

“To wash the taste away.”

“I can think of better ways to wash the taste away…” Silver grinned, hooking his index fingers over the top of Flint’s breeches and pulling him in closer. His hands moved to grasp Flint’s hips, thumbs stroking firmly along the V of his pelvis, slipping just below the fabric and back up again.

Flint felt his breath hitch as he watched Silver’s tongue slip out from between his lips to wet them. He took the cup from Flint’s hand, draining its contents in one gulp, wincing slightly at the burn of the liquor down his throat, before taking one finger of that hand into his mouth. Then the next along. Sucking, lapping, twirling his tongue about it.

Never letting his mouth leave Flint’s fingers, he moved one hand to expertly untie the laces of Flint’s trousers. The moment Silver began to pull them down below his hips, Flint’s free hand twitched to stop him, afraid of what might happen. Afraid of a repeat from the night before.

But Silver was too quick, too deft at manipulation, and before Flint could muster the will to stop this, Silver’s tongue was swirling around the head of his dick, one hand pumping at the base of his shaft. His hands went instinctively, habitually to Silver’s hair, intwining themselves in the mess of jet curls. He bit back a moan as Silver took him deep into his mouth and became entirely unable to suppress it the moment half-lidded cobalt eyes locked with his.

Silver smirked, pulling back to lick along Flint’s length, never breaking eye contact. Flint groaned, biting his lip as Silver continued to tease him with that goddamn tongue before finally engulfing him again. Eyes closed and fingers tightening in Silver’s hair, tugging, twirling, grasping, Flint moaned and panted under Silver’s ministrations. The firm hands gripping the taught muscles at the back of his thighs became a hazy addition to the myriad sensations filling his mind with pure ecstasy and bringing him towards the edge.

Finally, head thrown back and low moan escaping his lips, Flint came and Silver swallowed. He worked him through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving his face.

“Fuck.” Flint finally whispered, breath barely returning to him, “I hope Howell never devises a better tasting medicine.”

Silver laughed softly, wiping come and saliva from his mouth. Flint frowned, tucking himself back in. There was something in that laugh. Something not right. And in the way Silver held his body. Rigid and inwardly curled. A slight tremble was evident from the way it shook his dishevelled curls.

“John?” He knelt and took the man’s face in his hands, “You’re shivering.”

After a moment, his fiancé smiled weakly but the shivering didn’t stop. He glanced into Flint’s eyes, a silent communication. Flint could see it, see the fear there. Silver frowned.

“Why am I afraid?” He breathed.

Flint just pulled him into a hug.

He had considered asking Silver what Roger’s men had done to him, but couldn’t bring himself to force the man to relive that time. And besides, there was every likelihood the more horrific tortures had been suppressed from his memory in an attempt by that broken mind to protect itself.

Even without asking, though, Flint could imagine some of the horrors to have been forced upon his love. He was no stranger to the methods of torture used by supposedly civilised men on those they deemed inhuman. He had heard stories from his peers in the navy, bragging renditions of their part in such vile acts. He knew well the ways such civilised men might seek to extract information from their monsters. He had hoped Silver might be spared the worst of those tortures.

Hope never did work out for him.


	11. XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment there was stunned silence, the two observers watching the bizarre unfolding of events in a stupor. Then laughter. Bright, uncontrollable laughter coming from beside Flint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise if this chapter is a little all over the place! Feel like my mind is a jumble of incoherent words and pictures and colours this week! >_

The journey ashore was spent in comfortable silence. For two men with an almost unnatural aptitude for oration, Flint found that he and Silver rarely needed to exchange more than a few words, sometimes going days with barely more than an utterance shared between them.

It was not that they did not enjoy each other’s conversation. Indeed, Flint could recall several nights on the Walrus talking with his quartermaster for hours on end - discussing anything and everything, playing off each other’s ideas, thoughts and memories, painting pictures from their words as if they were fabricating entire worlds within that cabin.

But verbal communication just wasn’t always necessary - there was simply no need to fill the silence between them with anything more than their thoughts and small, wordless actions.

On the launch, sat in silence while two of their men rowed them back to the beach, Silver reached out to touch Flint’s hand. Flint laced their fingers together and they remained that way until the hull slid against the sand.

With a few teasing words from Silver to the men, they departed for Billy and Ben’s house, opting for a longer route via the streets rather than a more direct path across the sand. Crutches and sand were not, according to Silver, a harmonious combination.

As they skirted the edge of the morning market, having mostly avoided contact with any persons who knew them well enough to do more than stare, they were stopped mid-step by Mr. Featherstone and Idelle.

“Congratulations gentlemen.” The former clapped Silver on the shoulder and went to do the same to Flint, before eyeing him nervously and settling for offering a handshake.

“Whole town is buzzing about it - yours will be the first of it’s kind…had more women come by the inn last night than ever.” Idelle said in her characteristic matter-of-fact tone, “People aren’t ashamed anymore.”

“They never should have been.”

Flint’s reply came without thought and with more rage than he had intended. Anger at the very thought of anyone being forced to feel shame because of the direction in which their heart chose to pull them.

She shoved a basket of fresh fruit into his arms, “Well, thanks to the two of you, now they won’t be.”

With that she stalked away briskly and cheerfully, Mr. Featherstone hurrying in her wake.

Just before reaching their destination, to add to the strange encounters for the day, two of Madi’s men approached them, grins almost bright enough to outshine the sun. One, the shorter of the two, handed Silver a scrap of leather onto which was painted a simple pattern of four irregular diamonds fused into one.

Flint furrowed his brows, unsure whether they or it should be the source of more confusion. But Silver, at least, seemed to understand the significance of the gift. Bowing his head in thanks, he asked.

“Eban?”

The shorter one nodded eagerly. Silver smiled and said something Flint didn’t understand in their tongue. The taller of the pair replied, just as incomprehensible, shook Silver’s hand, and the two marched happily on their way down the street.

Flint frowned, “What was that about?”

Silver smirked and led them up the stairs to the house, “You should have paid more attention at the maroon camp.”

The cryptic answer left Flint still frowning as he followed after, making a mental note to extract an explanation from his fiancé later. Any thought of doing so was, however, forgotten the moment he entered the house, which seemed not so much a house as a-

“Ben, why does it smell like a patisserie?” Silver stole the words from his mouth.

“Ah. Bil’s gone out.” Ben called from the kitchen in place of an actual answer, “Something about your men being passed out in the brothel and needing to be removed.”

Silver lowered his voice to address Flint who had started unloading the fruit into the small pantry.

“I take it discounted whores was part of the inducement for the men’s help last night?”

“A deal was brokered with Max, yes.” Flint popped a grape into Silver’s mouth as he kicked the pantry door shut, already chewing one of his own as he spoke.

“Her price?” Silver moved the fruit about his mouth for a while, before sticking his tongue out to show Flint he had managed to peel the thin skin off it.

“Not yet asked.” Flint shoved him lightly as he moved to the kitchen, laughing softly at Silver’s display.

Silver scoffed, swallowing the grape, “Right. Then we had best expect a…Ben, what the fuck are you doing?”

They paused at the kitchen door to watch the man in question tiptoe on one leg atop a precariously tipping stool, reaching up to the top of a cupboard.

“Bil’ put the trays up there. Bloody alright for him, the damn giant, but for us…mere folk of decent stature…it’s too…AH!”

Almost in slow motion, the stool slipped out from beneath him and Ben, the pile of trays and several thick clay bowls came crashing in a heap to the floor.

For a moment there was stunned silence, the two observers watching the bizarre unfolding of events in a stupor. Then laughter. Bright, uncontrollable laughter coming from beside Flint.

Silver was leaning all his weight on the crutch, clutching his stomach with his free hand and laughing hysterically.

“Jesus fucking christ! You’ve been a pirate…the shortest…if you can’t…can’t handle domesticity…how the fuck are we…meant to?!” He breathed, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

It was contagious. Within seconds, Flint was laughing too. The situation with Ben he found mildly amusing, but seeing Silver actually laugh again was enough to have him almost singing for joy.

Ben soon joined their chorus.

Given the way Flint’s lungs were burning from lack of air, they could have been laughing several hours before a tall figure loomed behind them, although it was more than likely only a few minutes worth of the most intense laughter he had experienced since Silver had had a stand off with a rat that ate through his shoe on the Walrus. Needless to say, the rat had won.

“Am I missing something?” Billy’s voice from the door was barely audible over the mutual hysterics.

“I’m not sure I know any more.” Flint managed after taking several attempts to school himself. He wiped a tear from his eye and smiled up at the taller man, “You put the trays too high for Ben.”

“And that is reason to fall around cackling like infants?” Billy’s raised eyebrow set Silver and Ben off on another round of giggles.

“But you’re so tall!” Ben cried through his laughter, eliciting another raise in the octave of their laughs.

“What the fuck did you give them?”

“I am starting to question just what Howell put in Silver’s medicine…” Flint murmured, staring in fond bemusement at his former quartermaster, now almost falling into the doorframe as he continued to laugh relentlessly.

It took a good ten minutes for the two’s laughter to ebb into panting gasps, during which time Billy and Flint tried in vain to hold back their own amusement at the wholly unfamiliar scene as they set about tidying up the fallen pots and trays.

Finally, the four had managed to control themselves enough for Ben to fetch his freshly baked goods and Flint to prepare them some strangely floral tea.

“How are the men?” Silver asked Billy as the taller man took a seat opposite, his eyes still trained on Ben who was trying to place his baking onto the tray without burning his hands.

“Hungover but on the whole largely satisfied.” He took a long sip from his cup, “Nice story, by the way - the embellishments were…effective.”

“So I see.” Silver eyed a pale red mark on Billy’s neck with amusement, smirking victoriously at the deeper red blush it drew from the other man.

“Brioche, they call these in Paris.” Ben swooped in to set the board on the table between them and rescue his partner from the incipient awkwardness, “Most of France, actually.”

“All of France, I imagine.” Billy muttered, blush still prominently creeping up his neck. He reached for one and took a large bite that almost consumed the entire thing in one, chewing quickly and looking anywhere but at his companions.

“And, with an embellishment of my own design…” Ben beamed, grabbing his own, “Chocolate in the middle.”

Flint took one and tore it in half, unsure of whether or not Silver was able to stomach food any better now than before his departure. He handed one half to his partner, who eyed it curiously.

“You know I’ve never had chocolate before.” He muttered, taking a small bite of the fluffy thing. Flint watched with apprehensively as Silver chewed the warm pastry, then was unable to suppress a grin as he let out a quiet moan of pleasure at the taste. He licked a bit of the dark chocolate from his lips and almost moaned again.

Flint catalogued that information for later - Silver liked chocolate. He liked chocolate, and Flint found he rather liked the sight of Silver licking it from his bottom lip.

“Jesus Ben.” Billy’s exclamation and pointed roll of his eyes drew his attention back to their hosts. The taller man brushed a hand through his partner’s hair, “How the hell are you so damn messy?”

“I’m not messy - it’s a danger of having long hair. Isn’t that right, Mr. Silver?”

“No Ben. You are just messy.” Silver replied impassively. Ben pouted and finished his brioche in silence.

“So…when do you two intend to actually, you know, do the wedding thing?” Billy asked after a few moments before biting into his second pastry.

“Well, two days hence we will finalise, sign and announce the laws permitting the act.” Flint began, “After which all we need acquire is an ordained priest willing to conduct the ceremony. We could theoretically ask Pastor Lambrick, but…”

“Jacob would do it, I reckon.”

“Jesus.” Billy ran a hand over his suddenly very tired-looking eyes.

Flint glared, first at his reaction then at Ben for suggesting a man who elicited such an exasperated response, “Who the fuck is Jacob?”

“Best wordsmith in all New Providence.”

Silver choked on his tea.

A sudden knock at the door saved Ben from having to explain himself for throwing that title around so brazenly in front of the two men in contention for it.

Billy quickly hurried from the room to the front door, returning moments later with a less than contented expression and Teach in his wake.

“What do you want?” Flint growled, standing so as to create a more prominent blockade between him and Silver, instinctively positioning his own body between them.

“A letter arrived from England. We’re meeting now.” He looked past Flint to Silver, “Glad to see you back on your feet Mr. Silver…sorry. Foot.”

Silver’s right eye twitched just slightly and his lips twisted into a small snarl, but he let any retort die as Flint stepped up into the older man’s space with a glare.

“I will be along shortly. Now you had best be off - need to move slowly these days, don’t you? Lest that heart of yours finally gives out.”

The two men stood, chests almost touching, glaring each other down for minutes, plunging the room into a heavy and uncomfortably thick silence. Finally, Teach spun on his heel and marched from the room, back into the street. His footfalls clumped heavily on the wooden floor.

“I see you two remain on good terms.” Billy spoke once the sound of Teach’s footsteps finally faded.

“He’s a self-assured bastard who refuses to admit his inadequacies, and is…too old to…change tha…”

Silver was hopping right past Flint to the door, dragging his words to an incomplete ending.

“What are you doing?”

“What the fuck do you think?”

“You’re not coming.”

“Fuck if I’m not.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Be that as it may, let’s go.”

Silver went to reach for his crutch, propped against the doorframe, only to have Flint snatch it promptly away. He glared and leant against the wall instead.

“Either I hop there after you, or you give that back and we go together. Either way, I am attending this meeting.”

Flint narrowed his eyes, keeping the crutch held tightly against his side.

“Before they read the letter without us, perhaps?” Silver returned the glare, pushing himself to stand upright, wavering just slightly from the effort. Flint flicked his eyes quickly over Silver’s body, taking in his thin frame and the remaining prominent injuries, before shoving the crutch into his hands.

“Fine. But even the slightest indication that you are not alright, and we leave. I will not let you…”

“I neither need nor want your protection, James!” Silver snapped back.

“Well you have it!” Flint yelled back at him, adding more quietly, “I don’t give a shit what you think you need or want. My protection is mine to give.”

He stalked out the door, leaving Silver to stumble after him.

———

“When did it arrive?” Flint asked as he marched into the meeting room, holding the door open for Silver to follow him in.

Somewhere between ten and a hundred metres from the house, Flint’s ire had dwindled and he stopped to wait for Silver to catch up. A chaste kiss to his lover’s temple was offered in lieu on an apology, a brush of their fingers together as a sign of forgiveness.

“This morning. A small ship under the flag of truce was sent to deliver it.” Jack replied, nodding to a lieutenant currently sitting at one end of the table, “Two ships, apparently, bearing a large company of English soldiers and their superiors are, as we speak, en route to our location. This gentleman was sent ahead to bring us their correspondence.”

“How far removed?” Flint asked, all business except for the quick glance he spared his partner as the man stumbled slightly on his way to take a seat at the table.

“Five days.” The lieutenant spoke. He was young for his station, and despite making every attempt to appear stoic, was incapable of meeting Flint’s eyes.

“Are we to open it then?” Max asked impatiently, taking the letter from Jack’s hand and running a knife through the seal.

Flint looked back to the lieutenant, “Leave us.” He dismissed, “Wait downstairs for our reply. Miss Bonny will escort you.”

Anne raised an eyebrow at the indirect order but led the man from the room nonetheless. Max waited until the door shut behind them before unfolding the paper.

“Well?” Teach prompted.

She bit her lip, eyes scanning and re-scanning the page.

“They are willing to offer us legitimacy - to allow Nassau to elect a governor of our choosing, and they propose to retain fully open trade between our nations.”

“Provided?”

“Provided we consent to their placing two officers of _their_ choosing on our governing council, and…” She paused, voice softening, “…and we hand over Captain Flint and his quartermaster.”

“No.” Flint interjected immediately.

Jack sighed, “With all due respect, Flint, this is hardly your decision to make.”

“They can have me, but there is no fucking way I’m letting them take John.” He growled, resting his palms firmly on the table to glare at Jack across the room.

“Even if it is the only way to prevent this place from being killed in its cradle?” Teach argued.

“What about the Spanish?” Madi stood to address the room, her dark eyes gleaming angrily, “They still want Mr. Rackham, do they not? Why is it we should allow Captain Flint and Mr. Silver to be taken and not Mr. Rackham? Surely the Spanish are just the threat England is, if not more so.”

“Maybe we can use this to get the Spanish of our backs.” Flint clenched his jaw at Teach’s cocky tone. Talking as though he was about to offer them the solution to all their problems.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Spain knows Flint’s name. Knows his reputation. If we can convince them that it was Flint, not Jack, who stole and exchanged the Urca gold, we can cut our losses. There is no way around England’s demands, but at least we can get around Spain’s…maybe even keep the cash if we secrete the right lie.”

“We can use Mrs. Hudson.” Max suddenly exclaimed, “Eleanor’s servant under Rogers. She took refuge in my inn during the fighting and now is in my employ. She was spying on Rogers’ operation for Spain. If they hear it from her…”

“We might be able to convince them Flint took the cash and hid it.” Jack finished, a smile growing on his features at the prospect of getting to keep both his life and name. “They might still want to take Flint in themselves, but then that is for them to discuss with England. Take us out of the picture, so to speak.”

“And how do you intend to dissuade England from taking John?” Flint’s voice was cold, his glare fixated on Teach.

“I don’t. He was doomed the moment he chose to throw in his lot with you.”

“Then I won’t agree to…”

“Let us marry.” Silver interrupted. Somehow his voice, though quieter than most of the company, split through the room to silence it.

“I’m sorry?”

“Secrete your lie to Spain, hand James and I over to England under their terms, but let us marry first.” Silver stood, hiding the slight loss of balance as he did with a quick hand on the table, “We have sacrificed too much for this place to let it just fall, but _this_ I refuse to sacrifice. We will go willingly, but we will go together, as husbands. Give us the wedding, give us one night together, and we will agree to England’s terms.”

The company remained silent, contemplating the proposal for several minutes before Jack finally answered, slow and uncertain and looking to Teach for any objection.

“Alright.” He conceded, “Can you make the necessary arrangements before their ships arrive?”

“We will make them ready for then.”

“ _For_ then? You are going to marry in front of the English navy?”

“I want her dogs to see it. To witness an act they deem so vile and to know that in Nassau it is not so.” Flint replied.

The corner of Flint’s mouth twitched into a slight smirk as he exchanged a dark look with Silver. If they were going down, their enemies were not going to sit by comfortably as they did.

———

That evening, Flint stood on the back porch to watch the messenger vessel disappear over the horizon, sailing back to meet their mother ship with a letter outlining the council’s terms. Five days. That’s all they had. Five days to prepare for their wedding and the arrival of the English.

Nassau would need to both be capable of defending her shores in case the correspondence was a ruse to hide an intended full-blown attack, and be in possession of well-structured commerce and agriculture in order to demonstrate to their would-be allies just how viable this nation was.

And he needed to find a priest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't we all, Flint, don't we all.


	12. XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding time :)

Their wedding day arrived all too soon, which was in itself a debased prospect given how desperately Flint had wanted that day to come.

He had hoped that perhaps a storm might delay the progress of the English ships, or even that the water might pull their entire company into early graves. But neither the winds nor the sea were in his favour, and the two large vessels emerged on the horizon only four days after the correspondence arrived, English colours garish against the cool blue of Nassau’s sky.

The days leading up to their arrival were almost unbearable. Every moment spent with Silver, everything they shared over those few days, was tarnished with the knowledge that it might be the last time they shared that thing. Even mundane activities, the smallest of actions - helping each other with their coats, brushing hands when they passed - were more painful than any physical wound Flint had endured in all his life.

He wished they had not need for sleep over those days. Every time they closed their eyes to rest, he knew that it would not be long before Silver was screaming into the darkness and crying into his arms as nightmares relentlessly continued to torment his mind, worsening as the English drew nearer. Flint didn’t want his final memories of the man he loved to be him broken, sobbing and terrified. Perhaps the only saving grace was that Howell’s medicine was proving effective. The days went by without any more fits, although Silver did seem to slip into melancholy all too frequently in their absence, falling deathly silent to stare emptily into the shadows.

The situation was rendered almost unbearable by the fact that Flint was able to spend harrowingly few of the daylight hours with his fiancé. While he and Teach were working virtually non-stop to train their militia in case of English invasion, attempting to render former pirates from disparate crews into a coherent battle-ready force, Silver spent much of his time working with Madi, Jack and Max on more administrative matters. Ensuring commerce was operating smoothly on their side of the island and that strong links were established with the farmers and merchants residing in the interior. Setting up new trade agreements with nearby settlements to make Nassau appear as economically robust as possible before the English arrived.

———

On the third day, Flint returned from the fort early in the afternoon. A storm was threatening to spill its wrath onto the land so they had called their training to a close early, not willing to risk pneumonia among their men so soon before a potential attack.

The house was empty, quiet, as if it too could sense the looming storm and had shut itself away in preparation. Flint found Silver, the building’s sole occupant, curled in on himself against their bed, the boot firmly fixed to his gnarled stump and both a glass bottle and his crutch smashed against the far wall.

Flint cursed silently at how unfamiliar this particular scene was. Unfamiliar because when Silver first started trying to walk again, which was evidently what he had set himself to do once more, Flint had been on the other side of a cabin door, resolved not to help.

He had let Silver go through that alone. Out of rage, resentment, a sense of betrayal, perhaps, he had told himself. But those were all nice little lies to set his mind at ease. Flint knew, had known all along, that he left Silver to work through that alone because he wanted a companion, someone to suffer through the aftermath of loss beside him. Miranda. Silver’s leg. They had both lost something that could never be got back, and they ought both to suffer alone.

How dark his mind had been. Had Silver known the depths of it when he followed Flint into that abyss?

“I’m fine.” Silver muttered moodily when Flint came to crouch beside him.

Flint eyed the smashed bottle incredulously, smelled the heavy scent of rum on Silver’s breath “You absolutely are not.”

“I won’t spend what remains of my life hopping around on a goddamn crutch.” He glared at the floor and though his features were hard and definitively cold, his voice wavered with something far more vulnerable.

“Well, you just broke the only one you have left, so I wouldn’t worry about that.” Flint adopted a tone of disinterest, a habit when dealing with emotional situations that he had yet to cast off.

Flint sighed at the darkness in those once so bright eyes, and softened his voice,

“Get up.” He whispered, standing and reaching one hand down to his love, “Are you ready?”

Flint’s words were soft and unassuming. Patient. He could wait. He would wait. For as long as it took, he would be there right by Silver’s side.

Silver gingerly accepted the hand outstretched to him and allowed himself to be pulled up, automatically going to stand entirely on his right. After a few moments, allowing Silver to ease some weight onto the left side, Flint took one step back giving Silver space to swing the prosthetic forward.

His weight shifted to the left ready for the next step but his leg buckled. Strong arms encircled him before he could hit the floor. They pulled him upright and held him there.

He took a deep breath, looked Flint resolutely in the eye and the older man took a step back. Silver tried again. Fell again. Was caught again. And another time. Another.

Finally he took a step, wary and unstable, but a full step on the boot. He couldn’t manage a second. But Flint brought him back up when he fell, and he tried again.

For hours they worked at it. Silver trying and failing, repeating, failing again, and eventually succeeding to string two steps together. Then three, then five.

Flint never let him hit the ground and never spoke a word, even as Silver cursed and bit back tears of pain. He was just there, and that was enough.

At last, Silver made it all the way across the room. Despite the waves of agony shooting up his left leg and the exhaustion setting into his every muscle, he was grinning by the time he reached Flint at the far wall. He fell into his lover’s arms, and the two slid together down the wall to the floor, limbs entwined and laughing.

The feeling of joy embracing them was unparalleled. Almost enough to wash away the fear of what was to come when the sun next rose and England ordained it their final day together.

———

The wedding was held in the square, where Nassau’s growing population could watch from front porches and windows, while various officers of the navy lined the street itself.

The English had agreed to the terms set out in their letter, but insisted that the ceremony not take place in a church, because apparently that made some difference to their vengeful God. Flint almost laughed when he heard their demand. The only church in the town had long ago become an opium den, and so far as anyone knew remained as such.

He arrived at the square to find the crowds assembled but Silver absent. Jacob was stood at the makeshift alter, a book that he almost certainly would not read from open before him and a white scarf about his neck as a mock dog collar.

When the English forces had arrived and announced that they would agree to the council’s terms, they demanded that Flint and Silver be kept separate and under guard until the ceremony took place. Flint had been confined to Billy’s house, Silver to fuck knows where. He was man-handled out of the council building by two burly lieutenants immediately after the terms were agreed on, with only the commodore’s word that he would remain unharmed.

Flint had yelled after them, enraged, cursing them and their king, but received nothing more than a musket butt to the stomach for his efforts. Billy and Ben were allowed in and out of their house while he was there. He asked after Silver, but they could tell him nothing.

Standing before the empty wooden barrel that was to be their alter, waiting impatiently for Silver to arrive, Flint at first wondered if this delay was some twisted play by the English. A way to render their marriage as uncomfortable for them as for the company of English soldiers spectating. If perhaps they intended to force Silver to hobble to him in front of the crowd. To humiliate him. Parade him as some freak for their own amusement.

But as time wore on and the sun began to disappear beyond the horizon, Flint felt a sickening apprehension. Maybe Silver wasn’t coming at all. Perhaps the navy had already ferried him off the island, trafficking him away to an awaiting gallows back in England. Or perhaps they had just taken him out to be shot in the street, his body thrown somewhere in the ocean or left by the roadside to be devoured by the beasts of the night. His jaw clenched as thoughts, each worse than the last, drifted through his mind with each passing minute. The sun was now barely visible, the light almost gone, and Silver still was not there.

Finally, however, a murmur filtered through the crowd, hushing as a figure appeared into view at the other end of the street. A figure with a very distinctive limp to his step and his head held as high as ever. Proud and unafraid.

Flint eyed him warily when he finally reached the alter, sadly taking in the sight of fresh scratches on his skin and the exhaustion painfully plastered on his features. It wasn’t surprising that the rough treatment, the effective imprisonment for a day, would have induced a fit. But judging by the deep gash on his forehead and deep purple marks on his wrists, the lieutenants had opted for a less than civil way to handle it.

“Did they hurt you?” Silver asked first, whispering into the air between them.

“No.” Flint replied, equally softly, “Are you alright?” He asked the question despite knowing both the true answer and the lie that he would receive.

“We are about to be married - of course I’m fucking alright.” Silver looked around at the company of English soldiers mingled with the people of Nassau and smirked, “Although, it’s not entirely how I envisaged this moment.”

“Nor I.”

“More guests than I had imagined. Although, half of them want us dead…”

“…and the rest most likely have at some point.” Flint added, smiling. Unable to stop smiling.

Silver breathed out a tired laugh, “You and I need to work on our interactions with the rest of humanity.”

“Why? I have no desire to interact with anyone but you.”

Any reply Silver might have offered was lost as Jacob cleared his throat, drawing their attention and, by virtue of the extremely loud fake cough that followed, of those nearby. Like a wave, silence descended over the crowd and all eyes turned on Flint and Silver, standing hand in hand at their impromptu alter.

Jacob flashed the crowd a gleaming smile as if the gazes were for him and at last began. He orated as elaborately and extensively as Billy had warned Flint he would, giving a long and drawn out speech about love in all its forms, about its power and what it can achieve. About pirates and civil men, about peace and war, and the significance of love in both. It was overly sentimental and poorly designed, in Flint’s opinion, but oddly provocative and by the time it came to the vows, a sort of reverent awe had fallen upon the crowd.

Turning from the onlookers to the lovers at last, Jacob handed Flint one of the two wedding bands. A silver ring with a thin thread of peridot embedded in the middle.

“Captain Flint, repeat after me. I…”

Flint took the ring, took Silver’s left hand, and cut Jacob off with his own soft words.

“I, James Flint, take you, John Silver, to be my lawfully wedded husband. To join my life with yours. Wherever you go, I will go. Whatever you face, I will face. Through good and ill, against all odds, I am yours. My commitment is made in love, kept in faith, lived in hope and eternally made anew.”

His hand trembled as he slipped the ring onto Silver’s finger. Silver’s hand trembled with his.

Jacob turned to Silver, handing him a matching ring embedded with lapis lazuli.

“I assume you are just going to say whatever you feel like too?” He muttered with no small hint of jest. Silver didn’t cast him a single glance. His eyes were for Flint alone.

“I, John Silver, take you, James Flint - McGraw,” He added the name in a whisper, almost silent and exclusively for them, “To be my lawfully wedded husband. To join my life with yours. Wherever you go, I will go. Whatever you face, I will face. Through good and ill, against all odds, I am yours. My commitment is made in love, kept in faith, lived in hope and eternally made anew.”

Flint watched the tears glisten in Silver’s eyes as he slipped the band onto Flint’s finger, and knew Silver would see the same in his own eyes. Neither would let the tears fall now, he knew, but how it stung to keep them at bay.

Jacob looked somewhat uncertain how to proceed, so added,

“Just to confirm. You both, James Flint and John Silver, take each other to be your lawfully wedded partners?”

“I do.” They replied in union.

“With that, I pronounce this marriage complete - you may now share your first kiss as lawful husbands.”

Their lips were crashing against each other before Jacob begun the sentence.

The people of Nassau cheered, a large portion likely doing so with the primary goal of irritating the Englishmen daring to stand on their soil. The sound of tankards clanking together and bottles being opened rang out in the street. The town would be enjoying the excuse for some well-earned drunken revelry that night.

“Shall we give them a show?” Silver grinned, resting his forehead against his husband’s when they finally broke apart to breath.

“What did you have in mind?”

Silver slipped his hand under Flint’s shirt and raked his nails over his back as he dove in to start nipping along Flint’s neck, licking up his jawline to whisper in his ear,

“Something like this.”

With the grin of a predator closing in on its prey, Flint grabbed Silver’s hair, tugging roughly to send sparks of pleasurable pain dancing over Silver’s scalp. He licked along the exposed neck and drew a long moan from his husband, relishing the sight out the corner of his eye of various poor English officers visibly squirming at the scene. At least a couple in something a little bit more than morbid discomfort, he assumed judging by the tenting of their breeches.

How easy it was to invoke the passions of repressed men, Flint mused, pulling back from another kiss to bite Silver’s bottom lip. His hands were twined in soft black curls, Silver’s were exploring frantically, nails scraping over his husbands chest, his back, his scalp. Hands grabbed at the thin shirt Flint wore, grasped his ass, clung to the back of his neck.

Suddenly that burning contact was gone, ripped away.

“That’s quite enough. You have a room you can go to for… _that_.” The commodore pulled Flint off his husband and shoved him in the direction of the brothel, where Max had prepared a ground floor bedroom for them.

Silver laughed loudly, “But your men seem to be rather enjoying it.”

The nearest officer blushed a deep red and shoved Silver too aggressively in the same direction, eliciting another dark laugh from Silver even as he stumbled.

They were escorted to their room by a company of three lieutenants, the commodore and a good handful of lower ranking officers, leaving a cheering Nassau in their wake.

“I want three men on their door at all times.” The commodore ordered when they paused outside the room. None of the Navy men present looked too keen to volunteer for duty first, and the first three selected for the role were wholly unsuccessful at hiding their dismay.

“We will come for you in the morning,” The commodore turned to the couple, sneering, “Enjoy your last night together.”

His mockery was met with Silver’s most provocative half-lidded eyes and velvety voice as he leaned in so that his hot breath would ghost over the man’s cheek.

“Oh, I assure you, we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't actually really know what happens in a wedding...that might have been obvious...


	13. XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I could have taken you there. Right in front of the fucking English navy. Bent you over the alter and fucked you before them all, let them see you scream for me.”  
> “Then fuck me now and let them hear it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning - there is a bit of a POV change at the end of the chapter (and in the next chapter).

The moment Silver stepped into the room, Flint was surging forward to crush him against the door, slamming it shut right in the face of the commodore. He crashed their lips together, slipping one knee between Silver’s thighs to pin him against the wood as his hands tangled into the soft, voluptuous curls. He grabbed and pulled, wrenching Silver’s head back to expose the length of his neck. Unlike his mutilated back and leg it, at least, had been spared any grotesque scars from the noose, appearing as it always had. Smooth skin contoured by gently sloping hollows and protrusions for Flint to explore with his tongue.

He licked up from Silver’s too-prominent collar bone to his jugular, biting down to send a shiver running through the man’s body. Using the firm grip on Silver’s hair, he yanked his head to one side, presenting himself with more skin into which to suck bruises. Working his way up to the sensitive patch just below Silver’s left ear, he paused there to whisper into it, letting his hot breath tickle Silver’s scalp.

“I could have taken you there. Right in front of the fucking English navy. Bent you over the alter and fucked you before them all, let them see you scream for me.”

“Then fuck me now and let them hear it.” He rasped back, breath hot against Flint’s shoulder, fingers desperately gripping the base of Flint’s arse to pull his hips flush against him. Flint bucked them forward once to send Silver’s eyes flying shut and his breath hitching, and began to let his mouth once more traverse his husband’s body.

Silver arched beautifully under his touch, letting out low moans that were probably louder than they really need be. The very knowledge of English officers outside the door, listening to their every cry and moan and sigh, would have been enough to make Flint hard even without his husband’s hands everywhere on his body, his lips against his own mouth, his voice in his ear.

With one hand still in Silver’s hair, he moved the other other to press Silver’s hip into the door, fixing him in place as he ground his hips forward. Flint’s shirt was still untucked from their display at the alter, allowing Silver’s hands to work up underneath and clasp the firm muscles of Flint’s broad shoulders, willing him in closer. Always closer.

Under Silver’s insistent touches, Flint pulled the shirt off over his head as quickly as possible, unwilling to break the kiss any longer than was strictly necessary. Silver’s mouth was hot and wet, his tongue desperate and wanting. He barely even relented enough to allow his own shirt to be removed. Flint wanted to do it carefully, ensure he didn’t brush the rough fabric over any still open gashes, but Silver gave him no quarter. A small spray of blood came away with the shirt, but neither man paid it any notice. It was hardly the first time there had been blood drawn during their engagements, and it was certainly not going to be the last.

Flint kissed his way down Silver’s exposed torso, hands stroking down his sides, over his hips, finding their way to the front of his breeches. He pulled the knot loose in one tug. As he moved his hands back to Silver’s hips to push the fabric from his skin, the muscles beneath him became taught and rigid. Then a minute tremor. The slightest tremble.

Flint shot to his feet. Silver’s eyes were growing hazy, his breathing erratic.  
 “No.” Flint whispered, shaking his head even as his eyes remained fixed on Silver’s, “Not now.”

He clasped the sides of Silver’s face desperately, stroking his thumbs over flushed cheeks.

“John. Look at me.”

The blue eyes faltered, trying to focus, caught somewhere between a living hell and his husband. Flint was not letting the former get him, not this time.

“You’re alright. Nothing can hurt you. I’m right here with you.”

Silver’s breath was coming in short, sharp gasps now, his eyes failing to focus. Flint pressed his forehead against his husband’s.

“Please John. Please. Let us face this together. Whatever it is, let me stand beside you. Just come back to me, and we will make it through this.” He begged, feeling burning tears sting the corners of his eyes.

Flint continued the caresses, each one becoming just that bit more desperate than the last, stroking softly but ever more frantically over Silver’s hair and cheeks. He kept speaking soft and low, willing his love back to him.

Foreheads still touching, he watched recognition slowly emerge. He could see the haze just slightly lift from those blue orbs, see them look into his own.

Silver was trembling, afraid, but his eyes were finally locked with Flint’s.

“Are you with me?” Flint whispered softly, still brushing his hands over his love’s cheeks.

Silver just nodded.

“Do you want…”

“No.” Silver recaptured Flint’s lips, inviting him to carry on, to bring him safely through this.

His hand was shaking when he placed it back on Flint’s hip, so Flint placed his own hand over the top to still it. His other was still stroking over Silver’s hair, getting lost in the softness of it and the warmth of Silver’s lips against his.

“Say my name.” Flint pulled back just enough to whisper.

“…James.”

“Again.”

“James. Husband. I see you.” Silver murmured, “I see you.”

“Stay with me. I’m here. Whatever happens, we weather it together.”

Silver leant back up to meet Flint’s mouth in another, soft kiss. Tentative, but growing into something more lustful and demanding. Silver reached round to grasp the back of Flint’s head and bring him closer, deeper.

Unwilling to break contact all together for fear he would lose Silver the instant he did, Flint managed to awkwardly worm out of his breeches one leg at a time, in the process hopping them back a few steps and twisting so he landed with his back on the bed. Not allowing a moment for his momentum to be lost, he spun them both to pin Silver beneath him, hips flush against his and mouths still locked together. Silver clutched at Flint’s shoulders, rolling his hips upwards, forcing his husband to shudder at the sensation.

“Say my name.” Flint demanded again.

“James…” Flint ground his hips down into Silver’s, “Ah! Fuck! James!”

With a grin, Flint guided Silver’s hands down to his breeches, prompting him to remove them. He let Silver lead the action, then moved to the prosthetic still encasing Silver’s stump.

“No.” Silver reached out to stop him.

Flint paused.

“Leave it on. Please.”

So Flint bent instead to kiss the metal peg, tasting iron on his tongue. He kissed up to the leather, to where the leather met his husband’s sweat-slicked skin. Silver shuddered as pleasure melded with the chronic pain from his stump.

Moving back up to straddle Silver’s groin, Flint rolled his hips downwards as he leant in to cover Silver’s mouth with his own and swallow the moan that he had drawn out. Silver’s hands clutched his arse, pulling him closer as he pushed upwards in return.

Silver’s tongue was hot and demanding, forcing its way into Flint’s mouth, duelling with his own. When they broke apart for air, that mouth was immediately on the base of Flint’s neck, sucking a bruise into it, then up one side of his throat, and finally into the skin below his ear. Before he could continue, Flint was retuning the gesture, biting the same places on Silver in reverse. Silver keened below him, pushing up into Flint insistently, scraping his nails over the muscled back, scratching red marks into his skin.

With a quick kiss, Flint moved off Silver just enough to reach the bedside table and vial of oil left on it. Max had, of course, seen to it that they were well-supplied for the night.

Silver grabbed the bottle from Flint before he could open it and poured some onto his hands. Reaching down between them he stroked over Flint’s cock, slicking the oil along his length. Flint arched under Silver’s nimble ministrations, feeling waves of fiery heat flare through his entire body. He could feel himself nearing his climax from those hands alone so he pulled back, slowly.

Bending down to take Silver’s mouth in a languid kiss, he lined himself up and pressed against Silver’s hole. Their eyes locked, silent words passing between them. A question from Flint, an answer from Silver. A promise from both that they would bring each other through this.

Flint finally, slowly, thrust in.

The sensation was overwhelming. Just like their first time, Flint was entirely unprepared for the intensity of the pleasure flooding his every sense, for the heat of the sparks flying through his nerves. It was like nothing else.

Silver was hot and tight around him, their bodies fitting perfectly together so that, in that heated moment, they became one. Indistinguishable.

Flint started slowly, carefully, some part of his mind reminding him that Silver’s body was still so fragile, his physical and mental states both balanced precariously on a knife’s edge. But that voice of reason was drowned amidst the waves of ecstasy washing in torrents over him, and soon he was driving relentlessly into Silver, each motion met by his husband thrusting back against him.

Their rhythm broke only once, for an instant, when Flint almost removed his hand from its tight grasp on Silver’s hair. The other man grabbed Flint’s wrist and held him in place, panting at him not to let go. So Flint gave his hair another rough tug, a reminder that he was there and a promise that he would not leave.

Silver let out a loud, sharp, thrilled cry at the sensation. The sting in his scalp on the good side of pain, and Flint found himself unable to hold back, driving harder and faster into Silver. His free hand moved to Silver’s cock, tugging it in rhythm with his own hips.

Between the feeling of Silver around him and the beautifully wanton noises leaving his husband’s lips, Flint came with a final hitch of his hips. He drove slowly through the aftershocks, sparks of electricity singing through his veins. Two more tugs and Silver came moments later, arching under Flint’s hands.

With gasping breaths, Flint collapsed beside Silver, his hand still wrapped in the sweat-soaked curls. They lay there panting, just breathing together, for minutes, letting their sweat cool in the night air that filtered through the open shutters. There was almost certainly an officer stationed outside that window. He was either having an unexpectedly exciting or horrifically disturbing evening.

Laughing to himself at the thought, Flint lazily pushed himself onto his elbows and looked around the room. As expected, Max had left them supplied with a small basin of clean water and a cloth. He took them up and quickly cleaned them both before laying on the bed beside his husband once more, taking him in his arms and holding him close.

When Flint opened his mouth to speak, he received a gentle slap to his cheek.

“If you dare ask if I’m alright, I swear I will run you through with a bed post.” Silver murmured, voice muffled by Flint’s neck pressed against his face. His husband just laughed and kissed the top of the damp black curls before laying back against the pillows, closing his eyes and basking in the warmth of Silver’s body against his.

Sleep was beginning to darken the corners of Flint’s mind, mingling with afterglow to render his thoughts hazy and his body heavy. He could feel it overtaking him, threatening to pull him from the waking world.

But he could not sleep. He refused to. Not tonight. There was too much that needed to be done before the dawn. Too much he had to say.

Sitting up, Flint gently pushed Silver off him, extracting himself from his lover’s arms. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed and run a hand through his hair, unable to look back at Silver, at the lost expression he knew he would see there.

With a shaky breath and slumped shoulders, Flint stared out the window.

“John, I have something to tell you.”

———

“Sir!”

Little over an hour later, a young officer, pale-faced and bearing a deep bleeding wound to his head, all-but fell into the chamber where one of his superiors was in the middle of a meeting with Jack, Teach and Madi.

The lieutenant huffed angrily at the intrusion, ready to yell his subordinate into the ground. The sight of blood stilled him.

“What’s happened?” He demanded, standing fast enough to knock his chair to the floor.

“Captain Flint is dead.” The officer breathed.

“Are you quite certain?” Teach glared the poor man down, “Because he has an inhuman capacity for evading that particular fate.”

“Very certain, sir…unless he is able to evade it even after a metal leg has crushed his skull.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry!


	14. XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping to the shadows, he crept through Nassau as silently as a man with a metal leg could manage. For once he was thankful for the sand-covered streets to muffle the sound of his ‘foot’ fall. He eyed the wrecks, a dark expanse far in the distance. His hideout for now. His destination. But before he could begin the long, arduous journey there, he had an old friend just begging to eat a musket ball.

———

It was becoming very difficult to focus with his left leg sending burning pangs of pain shooting right up into his hip. This time it had been so much worse than with Dufresne. Maybe because he held less hatred for the victim of his attack, or perhaps just because his leg was starting off in a considerably worse state. It didn’t matter why, Silver supposed, his leg was on fire and that was more than a little troublesome when one is attempting a quick getaway.

He had burst from the room and quickly managed to grab pistols from two of the guards, shooting each point blank in the face, rendering them nearly as unrecognisable as his victim in the bedroom. The third had a musket. No pistol. It was too short range to fire the musket so Silver settled for a good solid whack to the man’s head. The musket did, however, serve as an excellent walking stick to assist in his escape.

Keeping to the shadows, he crept through Nassau as silently as a man with a metal leg could manage. For once he was thankful for the sand-covered streets to muffle the sound of his ‘foot’ fall. He eyed the wrecks, a dark expanse far in the distance. His hideout for now. His destination. But before he could begin the long, arduous journey there, he had an old friend just begging to eat a musket ball.

———

“The fuck happened?” Anne was on her feet the moment Max appeared at the council room door, holding a silk scarf to a bleeding wound on her temple.

She ushered the other woman to a seat at the table, taking the cloth from her to wipe at the blood herself.

“John Silver attacked me.” Max replied, her accent thicker than usual, voice uncharacteristically shaky. She turned then occupationally to the lieutenant, who was still reeling from the news he received only moments earlier from his officer.

“How did he even escape?” She demanded, glaring past Anne at him.

The commodore glared back,

“He shot two of my men in the face with their own pistols and knocked the third out cold. That is, after he crushed his husband’s head with that iron leg of his.”

“He killed him?!”

“Evidently they were having a quarrel. My officer, the surviving one of my officers, overheard them shouting. It seems that Captain Flint hid the remaining Urca cash unbeknownst to Mr. Silver, and when he refused to reveal the location…well, you can imagine how that played out.”

“Why’d he go after you?” Anne asked, her attention never having left Max.

“Earlier, maybe an hour ago, Billy Bones approached me. Asked if I could get him secret and immediate passage off the island.” She pulled a small pouch from her dress, “For my assistance and secrecy, he paid handsomely.”

A half dozen pearls were tipped from the pouch onto the table.

“Are those from the Urca cash?” The commodore picked one up to examine it.

“Perhaps. He did not say. But it is not inconceivable that Captain Flint or he might have managed to exchange the remainder of the Urca gold for pearls - they have the necessary connections." She mused, "If that were the case, I can see why Mr. Silver would be angered. He is obsessed with that treasure. And a betrayal of that kind...from his husband...in any case, when Mr. Silver came by asking after Mr. Bones and I refused to reveal where he went, he…”

“Where did he go?” The commodore interrupted when she paused to take a trembling breath.

“Who?”

“Both of them. Bones and Silver.”

“Mr. Bones I got passage to Tortuga. As for Mr. Silver, he ran when he heard someone approaching. I do not know where he might have gone.”

The lieutenant growled in frustration and turned to his officers,

“No ship is to leave this port without being thoroughly searched by us. He only has one goddamn leg - he cannot have got far! I want him found before we need to report this to the commodore.”

“That might not be a problem.” Jack appeared in the doorway, expression a mix of amused and absolutely exhausted, “It would appear that Mr. Silver decided to extend his list of victims for the night by one.”

Jack opted for a dramatic pause before offering an explanation to the awaiting room of his lovers and Englishmen.

“Musket to the face. I’m afraid the commodore is dead.”

The lieutenant blanched. Evidently this had not been the route to a promotion he had anticipated. His officers were staring at him, awaiting orders, fully aware of the dire situation unfolding around them. One prisoner dead. The other at large and on some sort of killing spree. And they still had diplomatic negotiations to sort out.

“Search the port. Now!” The lieutenant ordered after an excessively long, clearly terrified, pause. The officers scattered, all-but running from the room, shouting directions at each other and any comrades they encountered on the way.

The streets of Nassau were soon flooded with men of the English navy, barking commands and searching every alley, house and ship for Long John Silver.

———

It took several hours. Or at least, seemed as though it did. Walking on sand over that distance would have been unbearable under the best of circumstances, and likely impossible in Silver’s current state without the thrill of adrenaline from four murders driving him forward. Dawn was beginning its gentle caress of the sky by the time he finally reached the edge of the rocky area.

It was so tempting to stop there and rest. Just take a seat on that first rock and let his leg ease up just a bit. But, given the turmoil he had just stirred up in Nassau, he was almost certainly being hunted for by the entire encamped navy. It was only a matter of time before they followed him to the wrecks. This was the last and only chance to escape.

So, biting back wave after wave of pain, Silver hobbled on further, narrowing his eyes to try and make out the edges of rocks in the dim light. He must have stumbled into a good three or four of them by the time a familiar voice called out from the darkness.

“You alright?”

He sighed in relief.

“I know I said it last time, but there is no fucking way I am _ever_ doing that again.” He accepted the rum bottle held out for him and relished in taking a long, drawn out swig from it.

“Well, where we’re going, you certainly shouldn’t have to.”

Silver grinned despite himself and let his companion pull him down onto the rock he was seated on.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Taking another sip of the burning liquid, Silver closed his eyes and leant into Flint’s warm embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a couple more chapters to go, I think...this really has not gone at all where I initially planned it to, but hey. :) I hope people enjoy it.


	15. XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Pulling Silver down, he wrapped one arm around his shoulders, a shield against the bitter cold of this place. He leant his head atop the beautiful black curls, breathed in deep and swore he would never let this man go again.'

The wrecks had always seemed so much colder than the rest of Nassau. Perhaps it was the sea breeze whipping its way through the rocks, or maybe the perpetual shade cast by those looming masses themselves. At least some of the chill likely derived from one’s mind. From the sense of foreboding that came with a place occupied solely by those not long for this world or whose minds had long-since left it.

Flint shivered, wrapping his coat tighter about himself as a gust of wind spattered its way over the land. His eyes were trained on the town, little more than a mass of glittering firelight from this distance, soft-edged angular shadows the only attestation that anything of substance occupied that dark void.

There was commotion there. A frenzied hunt would by now be well underway. Soldiers running back and forth through the streets in search of his husband. There would be smashed-in doors, upturned carts, ransacked chambers. Every ship in port would be forced to remain at anchor, every road from the town blockaded, until the hunt was up.

Flint could see no sign of the activity from this distance, through this darkness, but he knew it was there. He could feel the dizzying rush of panic echoing through his own veins. If Silver was caught, and there was a painfully high risk that he would be, Flint would never see his husband again. Less than a day married, and he would become a widower. Lose the one person who really knew him, who he truly knew. The man to whom he had gifted his heart and soul and body.

This very moment, Silver could be in the hands of the navy or at the end of one of their pistols, and there was absolutely nothing Flint could do to stop it. He was utterly helpless again. Always helpless. Doomed to fate those he loved to cruel suffering and be a useless observer as that fate was forced upon them.

Flint was not alone, waiting, sat upon a sharp rock in this desolate patch of land. But in the darkness it seemed that he was. He knew Ben was somewhere nearby, waiting with breath as baited as his own. Jacob was there too, but neither man was distinguishable from the dark silhouettes of rocks punctuating the lightless landscape, and neither man dared speak for fear a single utterance might suffice to tear asunder this entire plan.

When finally Silver’s limping form emerged as a dark shape against the dim light, Flint felt giddy with relief. It washed over him in a strong wave that was almost immediately replaced with the duelling sensations of concern and guilt.

The limp was too pronounced, his gait too laboured.

Some part of Flint’s mind was screaming at him to jump up and envelop that man in his embrace. To grab hold of him and never let him go. But worry had rendered his body numb and cold. He barely managed to call out to him. His hand was trembling horribly when he held the bottle of rum out for his lover. The strong liquor had been brought on Silver’s request with the knowledge that, should he make it to the wrecks, he would be by that point in almost unbearable pain.

Just another element to his intricate plan.

Silver had devised the general scheme within moments of hearing England’s demands. Flint had to muster every ounce of willpower he had just to stop himself from bending the man over the kitchen table right in front of Ben and Billy the moment he heard the plan that evening. Silver was truly brilliant.

The details had been fleshed out over the course of that and the following evening. Everything had to be absolutely meticulously planned and flawlessly executed if this was going to work.

The basic concept was simple: frame Flint’s death. All they needed was a red-headed man who no one would miss to pose as Silver’s husband. Fortunately, the wrecks had ample supply of men without connections and little capacity to resist being apprehended.

No one in Nassau questioned Silver’s absence from the streets after what had happened, allowing him the time necessary to find a poor opium addict and render him as much a resemblance of Flint as possible. Billy had, surprisingly, not objected too excessively to their keeping a drugged man tied up in his house while they shaved his head and adorned him with a little crescent moon tattoo. Flint had requested a mock-up of their wedding bands from the jeweller, claiming he wished to check for fit before paying for the true rings. Something cheap with sufficient resemblance to their rings that, when on the finger of his doppelgänger, would add that little bit additional weight to the idea that it was him.

The night of their wedding, after Flint and Silver had made all the noise indicative of an impassioned row over the Urca cash, Billy was to bring fake Flint into the room through its single window, most likely after killing any guards stationed there. Silver was then to proceed to crush the unnamed victim’s skull to render him unidentifiable. Dressed in Flint’s clothes and with no face to speak of, combined with the surviving officer’s tale and Max’s dramatic story, their performance should be enough convince England that Captain Flint was dead.

And if he was dead, he was free because no one chases a corpse.

Of course, no plan was complete without appropriate accomplices with sufficient incentive to dissuade them from treachery.

Silver had approached Madi. Many of her people had yet to make the move to Nassau, including a small crew-worth of strong men. Silver had informed her of the location of the Urca cash, she quickly had it dug up and brought with her men on a ship now stationed just around the bend from the wrecks. The men would ferry Flint and his companions to the colonies in secret and return by a route that would appear to any onlookers to have come straight from the maroon island.

Each man, and Madi herself, were to receive a portion of the cash in return for their assistance. Another, more generous, share went to Max in exchange for her help in embellishing their story with Billy’s destination and Silver’s pursuit of him. Even after all that, Flint and his companions would be left with enough money to get them set up anew in the colonies.

With the navy hunting for Silver in Tortuga and no longer pursuing Flint, they could escape. They could finally be free. Free from fighting, from running, from hiding. They could have a future measured in years and punctuated by moments of happiness, not suffering. But first they had to make it off this island.

Forcing his numb limbs to move, Flint reached out and clasped one of Silvers wrists, feeling the freezing skin beneath his hand. Pulling Silver down, he wrapped one arm around his shoulders, a shield against the bitter cold of this place. He leant his head atop the beautiful black curls, breathed in deep and swore he would never let this man go again.

———

In the cold silence of the wrecks, minutes seemed to transform into hours. Flint held Silver close long enough to start documenting the frequency of muscle tremors in his left leg, each twitch accompanied by a sharp intake of breath from his husband. His left hand gripped Flint’s sleeve tightly, willing as much contact between them as possible to chase away the pain.

Silver shifted slightly beneath his arm to take another drink from the bottle, grimacing slightly as he forced himself to swallow.

“Jesus Silver!” A hushed voice from behind them, “The sun hasn’t even reached the horizon yet and you’re on the rum?”

Silver tipped the bottle back again, not bothering to face the new arrival.

“Fuck you, Bones.” He muttered moodily.

Billy just laughed and flicked a wayward curl into Silver’s face as he walked past them.

“You alright?” He added eyeing the bloody end of Silver’s boot and the way it was stretched out awkwardly before him, the prosthetic not quite following the line of his calf correctly.

“As before: fuck you Bones.” Silver glared up at the other man, voice gravelly with pain.

Billy scoffed, “I thought you might be in a better mood after that little murder spree. Committing four outright murders in one night. That’s a new record.”

Flint raised his eyebrows, “Four?” Silver had only been meant to kill the poor bastard from the wrecks and two of the officers stationed at the door.

Billy noticed Flint’s surprise and folded his arms over his chest as if chastising a small child.

“Apparently Silver got lost and found himself with a loaded musket in the commodore’s bedroom. Shot him right in the face up close.” He levelled a disapproving look at Silver, “That’s brutal, even for you.”

The man in question just shrugged and took another gulp of the rum, “He was a loose end.”

“He really wasn’t.”

“Better safe than sorry.” Silver smiled sweetly up at his friend, drawing a loud exasperated sigh from the taller man. It was followed by another, even longer exhalation when, looking to Flint for help, Billy received nothing more than a nonchalant raise of an eyebrow.

“I doubt the world will miss him.” Flint offered. His hand on Silver’s shoulder gave a gentle squeeze.

“Jesus!” Running a hand through his short hair, the Billy shook his head, “Please don’t keep up this murder party of yours when we get to our new home.”

“I doubt there will be a high enough population in the village to support it.” Flint replied easily.

“Well that’s reassuring. Remind me, why the hell am I running away to live with you two loose cannons?”

“Because they’re family.” Ben called, quiet enough not to be heard beyond their little gathering, but loud enough to catch their attention from where he stood beside a vaguely right-angled clump of rocks.

Billy smiled, all anger and frustration seemingly falling from his shoulders as he turned to the shorter man.

“Your alter awaits.” Jacob beamed, gesturing to the rock formation before him. He waited for Billy to take the two strides necessary for him to reach the other two before beginning his intended speech.

“Dearly beloved two other people, we are gathered here today to witness…”

“Jacob - we have two ships worth of English soldiers looking for us. Hurry…please.” Billy interrupted, eyes dancing nervously over at the town on the horizon. Flint followed his gaze. He could have sworn some of the silhouettes were moving, maybe even getting closer.

“Ah. Fine. I suppose I can leave the preamble to your imaginations. After all it was just going to be…”

Definitely getting closer. Flint’s grip on Silver’s shoulder tightened.

“Jacob!”

“Alright, alright! Calm down.” Jacob shook his head and turned first to the taller of the men before him, “Billy Bones, do you take this here Ben Gunn to be your lawfully wedded husband through whatever might befall you both?”

“I do.” Billy took Ben’s hands in his own.

“And the same question to you, Ben?”

“Yes.” Ben grinned up at Billy, bright enough that his soon-to-be husband was quite sure they didn’t need to wait for the sun to rise.

“Do you have the rings?”

“Yeah.” Billy produced two gold wedding bands tucked into his belt. Simple things. Mostly smooth metal with tiny patterns etched discretely around the edges. Unassuming and yet stunningly beautiful.

Easily, without needing to break eye contact, he slipped one band onto Ben’s finger before bringing that hand to his lips and kissing the cool metal. Ben blushed, fumbled with the ring in his hand and almost dropped it on his first attempt to place it on Billy’s finger. Taking a deep breath, with a trembling hand, he tried again, this time succeeding in decorating the other man’s hand with the ring.

“Then I now pronounce you legally husbands. You may kiss, should you so wish.”

Their lips had met long before Jacob finished the announcement, drawing a long exaggerated sigh from the bright-eyed man.

“Is anyone ever going to actually wait for me to finish before doing that?!”

The husbands just grinned at each other, fingers entwined and eyes for each other alone.

“We need to go, now.” Flint broke the peaceful silence that followed, standing and removing his coat to wrap around Silver’s shoulders. He glanced quickly over to the alter and smiled fondly albeit briefly, “Congratulations…but, if we don’t leave now, your marriage is going to be a very brief one.”

There was a growing mass of moving silhouettes on the horizon. Flint could have sworn they were close enough to hear the whispers of their footfalls on the sand. Billy was watching the horizon too. He must have seen the same thing for he quickly nodded and led his husband briskly to the launch, never letting their hands break contact.

Flint wrapped one arm around Silver’s waist without caring to ask if he needed help, and followed after them, handing Jacob two purses of gold coins as he passed the ‘alter’.

“One for you, one for Dr. Howell.” He muttered. The doctor had prepared enough medicine for Silver to last a week. The best he could manage in such a short period of time. Flint had instructions on preparing more, but until they reached their destination, doing so was an impossibility. He just had to hope the winds were in their favour.

The launch was hidden in the sand a few metres from the water, already loaded with their few belongings. Irreplaceable items and medicine. That was all they could afford to bring with them. Anything more and people might start to doubt their story.

Getting the boat and passengers into the water was a struggle that left all four men breathless. The wrecks were hardly an ideal spot to launch from, and the darkness was doing nothing to aid their efforts. But the crunch of boots on sand was getting closer. There were voices now. Still quiet, still far off, but close enough to be distinguishable from the whistle of the wind and crashing of the waves.

They would quickly and quietly. The sharp rocks sliced at their skin as they battled to get the boat into the water without letting it drift away. Ben was first aboard, helping Silver to follow. Billy next and Flint last. He took up one set of oars, Billy the other, and they rowed relentlessly, desperately, not letting up even as their muscles burned and throbbed. Not until the wrecks disappeared into the darkness and the looming shadow of a small ship appeared in the morning sea mist.

Madi’s ship. A small, unassuming vessel bearing perhaps two and a half dozen maroons, anchored at a reef about a two hours row from the coast of New Providence. A simple design, an old ship. No overly ornate figurehead or delicate carvings about the rails. It was just like every other merchant ship they might find anchored at every port in the each of the colonies.

For Flint, a man who had spent years filling his mind with the imagery written into countless novels, that vessel was, all in all, an oddly mundane symbol of freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are fast becoming my lifeblood - thank you! :) This fandom is bloody amazing and filled with amazing people.


	16. XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Over the days that followed, Flint could recall perhaps three times that Silver had demonstrated some recognition of who he was.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this may be the penultimate chapter of a story that was initially going to be a three-chapter work...that sort of didn't happen!

An unmoving silence had fallen upon the small ship the moment Flint set foot on its deck. He commanded an air of respect and every man on board could feel it. Without a word in favour or opposition, he unleashed a deluge of hurried orders to the crew, which the men immediately followed to the letter.

He had used the long row from Nassau’s shores to determine the optimum course to carry them away from New Providence with minimal risk of detection, selected on one specific port at which to make landfall, and mapped out in his head the most suitable route there. Such tasks were second nature to him now, after over a decade of being a captain (give or take the occasional mutiny), so he had made all necessary calculations without really realising he was doing it.

By mid-morning, the ship was well underway on its course to New York, and Nassau was little more than a distant spot on the horizon. The bitter cold of early morning had dwindled long ago, giving way to the glaring sun, a hot and fierce contender to the cooling ocean air.

Flint stood at the stern, watching the horizon intently as if to look away would bring English colours upon it. His eyes remain fixed firmly forward even when he heard the familiar thump of Silver’s boot on the deck behind him.

“Are the crew content?” He asked when his husband finally reached the railing and leant heavily on it, forearm brushing against his own.

“Very. They are all quite aware of the share they are receiving in return for this service, not to mention feeling honoured to have been selected for this task by their queen.”

Flint nodded absently.

“You should get some rest.” he said, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

“So should you,” Silver replied, following Flint’s gaze, “But we both know that’s not going to happen until we are at least a day removed from Nassau with no sign of English pursuit to speak of.”

“At least wash that boot if you are going to keep wandering around with it on.” Flint flicked his eyes over the prosthetic, still marred with ‘his’ blood, frowning when he noticed the very odd angle of it relative to Silver’s thigh and the blood just starting to seep through his breeches at the point where the boot encased his skin.

“I’m fine.” Silver answered the unasked question, knowing full well that Flint would see through the lie instantly.

Silver’s leg was not fine. It had been far less than fine since before this morning, and the stress put on it only hours earlier must have been too much for the healing wound. Of course, the man would never admit that and take the goddamn appendage off.

Sighing, Flint returned his gaze to the horizon and allowed silence to reign over them.

“Will you miss them? The men?” He asked at length.

Silver laughed softly and shook his head, “I care about their welfare, and on Nassau as it is now they are better off than they have ever been.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Yes it is. Just not to the question you chose to ask.” Silver quipped back, “Will _you_ miss them?”

“The men?”

“Your books. You left almost all of them behind.”

All but one; the only one that was truly irreplaceable.

“I will have to acquire more.” Flint replied distantly. His volumes had numbered close to thirty. Not an extensive collection, but quite reasonable for something made up almost entirely of tomes stolen from unfortunate merchant vessels.

“Well, this might help you on the way.” Silver said, producing from his - technically Flint’s - coat a leather-bound volume with ‘A Tale of a Tub’ embossed in gold on the spine.

Flint opened it to find two words scrawled into the front page in black ink. Silver’s messy hand.

‘Beloved husband’

“It is a more recent work than those populating your collection previously, but from what I hear, entertainingly satirical. I felt something more light-hearted than your usual tomes might be more appropriate for welcoming in a future together.”

Flint smiled fondly and pressed the book against Silver’s chest, leaning over it to kiss his forehead.

“Thank you.”

When the smile Silver returned didn’t reach his eyes, Flint pulled back, “What’s wrong?”

Silver’s sad smile didn’t falter as he looked back out to the horizon, still devoid of sails.

“I asked Howell to pack enough laudanum for…”

“No.” Flint snapped back without hesitation. He had seen the haunted look in Silver’s eyes after he returned from his time under opium. He knew what it had done to his mind then, and what it would do to him now, at sea, where the memories of his past would be that much closer to the surface.

Silver just laughed bitterly.

“That was not a request for permission, James.” The harshness of his tone was broken by the way his voice wavered at his husband’s name. He was afraid.

“You set a course for New York. That journey takes at least nine days, ten if we take care to avoid major shipping routes. Howell was able to prepare enough serum for seven days, and that will be essential once we make landfall and undertake the trip inland.”

Flint held his glare, the book gripped tight in his hands, but let Silver continue.

“And in any case, we both know that god awful stuff is far from perfect.”

“I brought you back from one before. We can get through this without resorting to opium.” Flint murmured in reply, but Silver just laughed again. A harrowing, empty sound.

“And just like being awoken from a nightmare, that…” He trailed off, swallowing back tears. Flint instinctively reached out to take his hand. Silver let him. Closed his eyes briefly at the touch.

“There is no other way, James. I know these men better than you. I know their superstitions and I know what they fear. Were they to see me fall into a fit, assuming those episodes are as Howell has described, they would believe me possessed. No amount of love for their queen will claim power over superstitions they have been surrounded by their entire lives. If they saw that, none of us would ever make it to see the shores of New York.”

“John, please. I can’t lose you.” Flint whispered, knowing he had no argument against Silver’s logic.

“Then wait for me on the other side.”

Flint cast his eyes to the book in his hands, to where he had been playing with its silk marker slip. He would not explore its pages alone. Not read a word written within until Silver was back with him.

Without another word, Silver brushed a hand over Flint’s cheek, offering a sad smile before turning to leave.

Flint watched him go with no small measure of concern. Opium was, at best, euphoric. In Silver’s case, given his past, it was more likely dysphoric. In both cases it was dangerous. Addictive, Flint knew all too well, in unskilled hands potentially lethal, and for even the most expert of users had the potential to irreparably scar one’s mind.

He remained there, silently watching the space where Silver had disappeared for several minutes. Listened to the door of the captain’s cabin click shut. Envisaged his husband’s bright eyes grow glassy as his mind became clouded with an opium haze, and schooled his emotions against the sight before he dared follow his love.

———

Over the days that followed, Flint could recall perhaps three times that Silver had demonstrated some recognition of who he was.

At other times, he was either so deep under the opium that any coherency seemed to escape him, or he was speaking as if to someone else in some other place. Flint perceived that, in the latter moments his husband had mistaken him and the shadows for various others including Dufresne, Rogers’ guards and the merchant captain who held him so many years ago, alongside a several people unknown to him.

Silver had spoken in Spanish, French, broken English and not at all. He had watched the darkness in the corners warily, screamed and struggled as far into the wall as he could, succumbed to weak echoes of his usual fits, and fought pathetically against Flint when he attempted to help him drink or was unable to resist smoothing down the messy black curls.

But most often he lay silent, watching nothing with fearful eyes.

On the seventh evening, Flint was seated at his desk in the cabin, pouring over maps of the colonies by dim candlelight. After arriving in New York and refitting the ship for its return to Nassau, they would need to locate a suitable settlement to make their home. Somewhere away from the sea, but not so far inland as to be difficult to reach from the port. Somewhere on the outskirts of the colony…

“James?” Silver’s voice from the pallet was hoarse and weak, almost inaudible against the sounds of creaking wood and turbid waters.

Flint moved to take the seat beside him, pouring a cup of water from the decanter on the desk on his way. He walked carefully, slowly, so as not to frighten the man were he immersed in some dream. But his eyes held a light of recognition as the cup was lifted to his lips, and he took a long sip of the lukewarm liquid.

As Flint went to remove the cup from his lips, Silver’s hand darted out to catch his. He turned it over for a moment, stroking one index finger over the silver wedding band, smiling softly.

“It was real. Our wedding.”

“Yeah.”

“I feared it might all have been a dream.” Silver whispered, still smiling, still holding Flint’s hand in his.

Suddenly his eyes widened as he stared at something behind Flint and those hands tightened painfully around his husband’s but Flint made no attempt to pull away.

“What part of this is…? I can see him. Them. I see them all and I _feel_ it all.”

“They’re not real, John. None of it is.”

“And you? Are your real?”

“Of course I am.”

“Why are you real and they not? You are all the same. All here. Everything is all here.”

Flint was forced to bite back a choking sob at the sight of the man he loved being reduced to this. He felt helpless. Again. As he too often had been these past months. This past fucking decade. Unable to to anything but stroke the soft jet hair as Silver’s pained murmurs fell into an incoherent slur of Spanish.

———

Silver received his final dose of opium the night before the lookout sited New York harbour through his glass, signalling approximately a day before their arrival at the port. Just over a day for Silver to come out of his opium-induced state of non-being and return to reality. Just over a day for Flint, Billy and Ben to prepare everything necessary for the journey to their new home.

“It’s a moderately-sized settlement a few miles in from the port. With the money we take with us, I expect we can buy a plot of land on the edge of it, and some seed to grow there. Perhaps some chickens and cows too, in time.” Flint was explaining, indicating a small point on the large map rolled out before him, “On cart, I estimate it will take approximately two days to reach from the port.”

Silver sat on the bed bundled in a coarse woollen blanket, “How long to refit and…”

“Set course for the return to Nassau?” Flint finished for him, “Three days at most. Fortunes being in our favour, we should be able to settle within a week.”

“When are fortunes ever in our favour?” Billy muttered gloomily, to which Ben responded by promptly kicked his husband hard in the shin for his pessimism.

Waiting for the other couple to finish by exchanging a series of disapproving, apologetic, forgiving and endearing glances, Flint continued,

“While we are in the port, do not use your real names. While it is unlikely that anyone here has met you, we do not want to draw any undue attention to ourselves. Your pseudonyms should, ideally be those you will hold from now on. People do not simply appear and disappear. They have origins and pasts. We will need to create these for ourselves.”

“Any chance someone has seen Captain Flint?” Billy asked.

“It is unlikely. I have never been to New York, but we have taken enough prizes that it is not impossible, therefore…” He sighed deeply and hesitated for a moment before pulling from a drawer to his left a deep brown, neatly curled wig.

Silver barked out a laugh despite himself.

“Dear Lord. James, please don’t tell me you-you are going to wear that.” Amusement seemed to bring some strength to his weak, tired voice. Enough strength to bring a slight twitch to the corner of Flint’s lips.

The merest whisper of a smirk that grew into a grin as he spoke,

“Not all of us already have a fucking poodle attached to their heads. This is the fashion in the colonies at the moment. Clean shaven with this, I will appear just another travelling Englishman, and avoid us all being hanged within a day of arriving.”

“At the cost of your dignity.” Billy added with a broad smile.

Flint sighed and placed with fake hair on his head, testing its fit over his growing ginger locks.

“Apparently freedom doesn’t come cheap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for commenting. It makes my day every time I read a comment. :) I am fighting with about twenty head canons for drawing and writing at the moment...if anyone feels like helping me sort through them and decide on one or two to actually write/draw, feel free to hit me up on tumblr (@themissingmask)... ;)


	17. XVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter will alternated between Flint's log in _italics_ and events. I hope tis not too confusing!
> 
> Also, thank you so so so so so much for all the comments on this story! It got very carried away from what it was intended to be, but here is the final chapter, which I just had to make pure fluff after the S4 promo was released!
> 
> Lovely people of BS fandom, we will need to band together and remain strong for S4!!!

_  
What I recall most vividly about having a family is ridicule. Not in a cruel sense. Not the sort that leaves one feeling hollow and vengeful, but rather the kind that has one laughing at oneself. In spite of oneself._

_For the past two days we have been in port in New York, John and Billy have taken every opportunity to mock me regarding my current state. That is to say, clean shaven and forced to decorate myself with a coarse-haired wig of typical colonial fashion. Itchy fucking decoration._

_It has, irritation aside, served its purpose. I have been able to secure us two strong horses and a cart, as well as all the necessary supplies for Madi’s men to make their return to Nassau. John has been busy ensuring they know the route to take…a route mapped out by myself, and memorised perfectly by my husband. That term still feels unfamiliar, and yet not foreign. As if it belongs on my tongue, as if it belongs and always had belonged to John Silver.  
_

———

“You look ridiculous.” Silver announced as he entered Flint’s cabin to find his husband tucking stray ginger tresses up under the itchy, coarse wig.

“Thank you, my dear. I think you may have mentioned that. Repeatedly.” Flint replied sarcastically, squinting in the small dirty mirror to check for any wayward strands Coming up behind him, Silver wrapped his arms around Flint’s waist and pulled him in close to rest his forehead against the older man’s shoulder.

“You know, you could send Billy into the port. Or even Ben. You need not even step off the ship until we are ready to move inland.”

“The risk is too great to entrust this task to anyone but you or I.” Flint replied, turning in Silver’s arms so he might return his husband’s embrace.

“Then why not let me go? The medicine is working, and I am far less recognisable than you.”

“You underestimate just how stunning those curls of yours are.” Flint returned, running a hand softly through them, “And, even if not recognised, you would attract too much attention…”

“Suppose one-legged creatures are as rare here as in Nassau.” Silver laughed bitterly, but Flint’s hand cupping his cheek silenced the terrible noise almost instantly.

“You always attracted too much attention, leg or boot or no.” Flint whispered, planting a chaste kiss on Silver’s parted lips, “I used to find it quite troublesome, if we’re being honest.”

The laugh that fell from his husband’s lips then was pure, harmonious, and warming. Flint smiled back even if he knew not what the man was laughing about.

“Since we’re being honest, I feel I must draw fact to just how absolutely ridiculous you look in that fucking thing. It bears strong resemblance to a tired poodle that has opted to nap atop your head.”

“Is that not your usual state of being?”

Silver reached up to run a slender hand through his long curls in response, letting them hit Flint’s face as they sprung back into place.

“Poodles wish.” He replied with an easy smile that had Flint unable to suppress a grin.

“I’m sure they do.”

With a quick parting kiss, Flint grabbed up his purse and pulled on his coat to leave for the port, a distinct spring in his step.

———

 _We were fortunate enough to find a vacant plot of land and old house on the outskirts of the town. We acquired it with the help of a pleasant woman by the name of Miss Craig, owner of the inn here. The house will need repairs and the garden is an absolute atrocity, but such things are really by the by. I have taken a small room as my study, and it is from there that I write this log. John has taken to bed early. He remains exhausted from recent events, and his leg is troubling him still. I will go to the town tomorrow to look for work, and see if I can’t find some place to commission him a new prosthetic.  
_

———

“So, he fixes me with this intense gaze, leans in real close so I can smell the rum on his breath, and he whispers right into my ear, ‘Sonny. Good cooks are in short supply…’. And with that he just grins and disappears, and I mean literally disappears, into the night. Silent but for the dull thud of his crutch on the cobblestones.” Silver paused for effect, looking around the table at the enraptured audience he had amassed, “So there I am…left wondering…what the fuck did he mean by that?”

He took a deep swig of the ale in a tankard before him, smiling to himself as if lost in wistful memory. False memory, but wistful nonetheless.

“Then, months later, I hear of a man with a similar…ailment…to myself,” He clinked the now empty tankard against his metal prosthetic twice, “Crewed up with a ship bound for the West Indies, serving as a cook aboard. Whether he found the cash, I cannot say…but if you happen across a very rich one-legged, parrot-friendly man…well…I imagine you can deduce how this tale might have ended.”

“You mean to say, he _tricked_ his way onto a ship, posing as a cook? Just to hunt down Captain Flint’s treasure?” One outraged gentleman seated opposite Silver exclaimed. Flint smirked from behind his own mug of ale.

“I can only imagine…he was a wily one, old Long John, so I would hardly put such treacherous deception past him.” Silver shook his head, apparently nonplussed. Another voice, a woman this time, from some table a few metres away,

“What about Captain Flint? Did he tell you anything about him? John Silver. Did he tell you any stories about when he was a pirate?” She asked, excited in a way that demonstrated quite clearly that she had never had the misfortune of actually encountering a pirate face-to-face.

“Aye. One or two.” Silver’s grin was wild, playful, and made something feral stir within Flint. He let his leg rub suggestively against his husband’s real limb under the table. The grin widened and Silver quickly grabbed Flint’s tankard from his hand, draining the rest of the ale in it, “But, that will have to wait for another day. I’m awfully tired, you see. If you will excuse me.”

With a charming smile, he eased himself from the table, making a show of the effort it took. Flint immediately rose to help him up, wrapping one arm around his waist solely with the purpose of assisting his invalid companion. So far as the other occupants of the tavern knew, at least. To those civilians, Silver and Flint were long-standing friends who served on the same merchant ship for years. Nothing more. That level of proximity was safe. It drew no undue suspicion, particularly when Silver opted to overtly flirt with women in the tavern and in the market.

“There’s a parrot now?” Flint smirked, as soon as they had left the busy main street of the town for the quieter path back home.

“Well, the tale needed a little more spice to it. And someone for poor lonely Long John to talk to, aside from his cabin boy friend.” Silver shrugged with a toothy grin, “I thought the stories might lose some credit were you to appear as an apparition…a dog would simply devour all the food in the galley. Therefore…”

“Therefore, a parrot.” Flint laughed and pulled Silver in close, wrapping one arm around his lithe waist and gracing his temple with a quick kiss. They remained that way the whole way home, ambling easily under the heady buzz of alcohol, calmed by the quiet, peaceful night air and the sense of safety it brought with it. A still unfamiliar sensation, but one Flint could happily grow used to.

———

“How was the tavern?” Billy asked as the two half-stumbled through the door.

Flint tripped over his boots as he attempted to pull them off without letting go of Silver’s waist.

“The story went down well - did you know I’m a parrot?”

“No.” Silver smirked, “ _You_ were stomped to death on Nassau. But without Captain Flint, there is no Long John Silver, so…”

“So you named a parrot after me.”

“If it’s any consolation, his plumage is…”

“…the same emerald green as his captain’s eyes so that when Long John looked upon the parrot he might imagine he was still gazing into the depths of those orbs.” Flint quoted, standing and pulling his husband flush against his body, “And you accuse me of romanticism.”

“Well…I had to learn from somewhere, did I not?” Silver replied, eyes falling half lidded, mouth parted just so. Flint felt his breath quicken and drove his hips forward just enough to make Silver’s hitch.

He leant in, mouth ghosting Silver’s ear,

“And what other skills have you acquired from me?”

“Jesus!” Billy exclaimed, somewhat over dramatically, “Will you two please remember you are not the only ones living in this house. Take it to the bedroom…please!”

“Not to be blunt, Billy, but you’ve seen worse.” Flint replied, raising an eyebrow at his former bosun.

“I know.” The man all-but wailed, “Dear lord I know.”

Flint laughed but led Silver to their allotted room nonetheless. It was still unfurnished, but for a few oil lamps hanging on the walls and a large bed in the centre, but at this stage, what more did they need? They had each other and a home. By Flint’s reckoning, that was more than enough.

———

_  
It has been 601 days since we last sighted the ocean. I have not been counting. Not really. But Ben, for some reason, has. He baked a rather elaborate cake to celebrate the 600th day yesterday. And, to be quite truthful, it was delicious. John ate more of the chocolate decorations than the cake itself, but Billy was quite content to trade his chocolate for more sponge, so no one complained on that front. They have gone to offer the left overs to Miss Craig at the inn now, leaving John and I alone for a few hours to work on our current commissions. Two maps of the West Indies and one of the coast around Boston, which in total should yield enough coin to purchase a couple of dairy goats or perhaps a cow._

_With our last wage, technically our first payment since opening this impromptu cartography business of ours, we were able to purchase four chickens. John gets along wonderfully with the birds, and has named them Muldoon, Charles, Dobbs and Randall. Indeed, he is outside with them now making an absurd amount of noise. Fortunate we have no neighbours._

_John’s fits are rare now. Only two in the past year. And the nightmares are becoming fewer and less severe. This place seems to have offered him a true sense of peace, as it has us all. Ben bakes bread and pastries to sell at the market, while Billy helps out at the tanners in town. He seems intent to track dye into our home and, if Ben’s scolding is any clue, leave it all over their bed sheets._

_Surprisingly, John is not the messiest person in the household.  
_

———

“We’re home! And we brought-”

Flint looked sharply up from his desk through the open study door, immediately stilling Ben’s tongue.

“John’s resting.” He murmured, returning his attention to the intricate map laid out on the surface before him.

“Another fit?” Billy asked softly. When he received but a darkening of Flint’s expression in response, he moved to place a hand on Flint’s shoulder, leaving Ben to put away their produce from the market. “He’ll be alright. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried.” Flint placed his quill in the inkwell and traced the wood marks of his desk with one finger, “It just…reminds me of everything that happened…back then, in Nassau.”

“You can’t keep blaming yourself for that, James.” Billy sighed.

“Who else is to blame?”

“Billy?” Silver’s voice from the doorway drew their attention.

“Bil’ had nothing to do with it.” Ben argued, voice loud and accusing, coming from somewhere off in the kitchen.

Silver laughed, and walked into the study, peg leg thumping softly on the rug beneath Flint’s desk.  
 “Precisely. He didn’t, but if we are placing blame, my love, you ought too to blame Billy, and Max…Madi too, probably Ben and Howell…why not blame Charles Vane or Anne Bonny while you're at it.”

He wrapped his arms around Flint’s neck and entwined his fingers in the greying beard.

“Point is, what happened in the past is done and gone. Blame is as futile as regret and as damaging as shame. We are here now. We are home now. That’s all that matters.”

Flint smiled sadly and reached back to cup Silver’s cheek. He was right. Of course he was right.

———

_It has been several years since even Ben stopped counting how many days have passed from when I last saw the ocean. Our home is settled, at peace. Charles is laying very impressive eggs, and is quite the talk of the town whenever we bring some to market. John insisted we acquire a cock about a month ago, and opted to name him Bones. Billy was less than impressed. I find little time, and even less need, to thoroughly document the events of the days here. We earn enough money to get by comfortably, and have little to trouble us beyond the pests and weeds in the garden, keeping predators from the chickens, and my three companions persistently attempting to destroy items of furniture. I find my heritage as a carpenter’s son quite useful these days._

———

“No! That’s salt, not sugar! Bil’ stop!” Ben yelled from across the kitchen, louder than a room of that size warranted, stumbling over a couple of pots left haphazardly on the floor as he attempted to rescue his nascent pastries from a culinary disaster.

Billy just stared in shock at the bowl of mix, now thoroughly doused in white crystals.

“Umm…I can scoop it out?” He offered sheepishly as Ben followed his gaze with abject horror.

“That’s no good! Any salt in here will ruin the whole thing. How did you even? They don’t look a thing like each other!”

Ben was yelling, while Billy tried to grab large handfuls of the salt without taking too much dough with it.

Silver smiled fondly, watching the scene before him.

Flint smiled fondly, watching his husband.

“Is this what family is like?” Silver mused aloud. Flint raised his eyebrows, smirking,

“It’s what our family is like.”

Silver let himself fall sideways into Flint, humming softly as he felt his husband’s arm wrap around his shoulder.

That was their life now, and Flint couldn’t imagine that he could ever have hoped for more.

———

_  
We continue not to count the days since we left the sea behind. I own three shovels and not one oar._

_News of Nassau arrived in the town today. Scandalous, it was, to find that a woman had been afforded the official title of governess there. We were, on the whole, unsurprised to hear Max take up the position. From the whispers at the tavern, we were able to gather that Nassau has fallen into prosperous times under her governance, and is well known for its liberal ways when it comes to marriage._

_It was a relief to hear not even the slightest tone of resentment among the townsfolk when discussing that particular aspect of their law. Pirates, they found outrageous, but men laying with other men did not arise as a subject of particular disagreement. Indeed, it was not a subject dwelled upon at all. Not that any of us intend to openly display our relations here, but it is refreshing nonetheless._

_The news was a fortuitous coincidence. The reason we were in the town today was to attend the opening of a library, from which I managed to purchase three new volumes. That means my personal collection now numbers at twenty-one. I hope to double that by Christmas.  
_

———

“A crew approached me today,” Billy began as they sat down to dinner, “Asked if I would join them in an adventure. I asked what manner of adventure. And they say to me that they’re going after Captain Flint’s treasure…hope to get it before old Long John does.”

That drew laughter from most of the assembled company, but Silver just smiled. He had spent much of the day in a state of melancholy, entered into upon hearing of Nassau. At least that smile was still genuine. Indeed, it was genuine more often than not now.

Flint would accept that as a small victory amidst a sea of losses.

“He believes that he has found a lead. Someone claiming to have met Billy Bones himself. And that someone said that Billy gave him directions to the island on which the treasure was buried.”

“Let’s hope not.” Flint laughed after finishing chewing a bite of stew-soaked bread, “I don’t believe Madi ever actually oversaw the disassembling of all the traps on that island…”

“Not a nice place for treasure huntin’.” Ben chipped in, eyes nervous from the thought of that island.

“Particularly when there is no treasure to be found.” Billy dipped his bread into Ben’s stew, patting his husband on the shoulder when he got a glare for the action.

“In any case, I declined his offer. Said I was quite content to be rid of the sea for good.” Billy continued, smiling and waving his hand to gesture their home, “Have a home and happy life here, with you lot and our growing number of birds.”

As they finished their meal, the discussion turned, as it often did, to the garden, to the market, to baked goods and new recipes to try, to cartography and the little sea monster illustrations Silver liked to add.

While Billy and Ben took to their bedroom, Flint led Silver out to the porch where they wrapped themselves in a thick woollen blanket and curled up on the cushioned bench, looking out over the back garden cloaked in darkness. The stars shone bright above them, almost enough to drown out the thin sliver of a moon resting in their midst.

Flint smiled, feeling a warmth like none he had ever before experienced. With Silver nuzzled into his neck and safe in his arms, he for the first time felt that things were truly in place.

He was home. In this small wooden house with his strange little family. With his husband. They were broken, haunted by tortured pasts and dark thoughts, but none of that mattered. None of it seemed to reach them anymore.

He softly kissed the top of Silver’s head, lips lingering on those soft curls.

This peace had been well worth the war.


End file.
